The ship rested on its quarterdeck while support had been added beneath the forecastle to allow the galleon to lay flat. An open passage ran through the ship’s middle, the main deck now a ceiling. Ladders slung down to allow access to the hold, and a rough set of stairs had been built up to what had once been the captain’s cabin.
While Yoris had grudgingly taken Evrane and Iseult to get food, Safi had followed Merik into the captain’s cabin and over to a table of charts—also like the one on the Jana—at the center of the room. There was no glass in the windows now, but the open slats of the shutters let the sound of everyday bustle slide through—as well as a welcome breeze. The ship was thick-walled, the midmorning heat oppressive, and Safi found herself wiping away more sweat indoors than she had outside. Even fussy Merik had his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled up.
“The Cartorrans likely follow me,” Safi said, when Merik refused to look up from his careful scrutiny of the map. She planted her hands on the table. “We need to leave for Lejna as soon as possible, Prince. How far is it?”
“A full day if we stop for the night.”
“Then let’s not stop.”
Merik’s jaw clenched, and he finally fixed his gaze on Safi. “We have no choice, Domna. Yoris can only spare two horses, which means if Iseult joins—”
“Which she absolutely will.”
“—and Evrane joins us too, which I’m certain she’ll do, then we’ll have to ride two people per horse. And that means we’ll need to stop for the night so our steeds can rest. Besides, no one can find the Nihar cove, so no one will be able to go ashore anywhere near us.” Merik snagged his jacket off a nearby stool and rummaged inside before pulling out a familiar document—now flattened and creased.
With infuriating slowness, he unfolded the document beside the map. Then he snagged a piece of dry bread from a bowl at the center of the table and took off a fat, mocking bite.
Safi bristled. “I suppose you’re still mad at me.”
Merik’s only response was to chew faster and stare harder at the map and contract.
“I deserve it,” she added, dragging a step closer and thrusting away her temper’s desire for ignition. Now was her chance to talk to Merik alone—to finally apologize for … for everything. He couldn’t flee and there was no one to interrupt. “I made a mistake,” she added, hoping her expression looked as sincere as it felt.
Merik gulped back a glass of water and wiped his mouth in a most un-Merik-like way. Then he finally hauled his gaze to Safi. “A ‘mistake’ makes it sound like it was an accident, Domna. What you did to my crew and my first mate was calculated malice.”
“Calculated what?” Indignation towed at Safi’s jaw. “That’s not true, Prince. I never meant to endanger Kullen or your men—and my power says that you don’t even believe what you’re saying.”
That shut him up—although his nostrils did stay flared and Safi thought he might choke if he guzzled his water any faster.
She scooted around the stool that held his jacket.
He immediately stepped away two feet. The chart and agreement rustled over the wood.
Safi thrust out her chin, and this time she advanced three more steps—right up to his side.
And with a harsh exhale, he stomped all the way around to the opposite side of the table.
“Really?” she cried. “Am I that awful to be around?”
“You are.”
“I just want to look at the agreement!” She tossed her hands high. “Shouldn’t I know what my uncle expects from you? Expects from me?”
Merik’s posture turned stony, but at last he offered a resigned sigh—and when Safi strode around the table, he stayed firmly in place. Though his shoulders did rise to his ears, and Safi didn’t think she imagined how quickly his breaths came.
“Relax,” she muttered, bowing over the contract. “I’m not going to bite.”
“Has the feral lion been tamed, then?”
“Look at that,” Safi purred, sharing her most feline sideways grin. “It has a sense of humor.”
“Look at that,” he retorted, “it’s trying to change the subject.” He dug a pointed finger into the agreement. “Read the cursed contract, Domna, and go away.”
Her smile sank into a glare and she bent down, resting her elbows on the table and pretending as if this was the very first time she’d ever read the agreement.
Except, it was a different read-through this time. The language of the contract was unchanged, yet the way Safi felt about it, the way it gnawed at her stomach …
All negotiations on page two of this contract will terminate should Merik Nihar fail to bring the passenger to Lejna, should the passenger spill any blood, or should the passenger die.
Her knee started juddering. She had been so close to spilling blood—or dying—when she’d fought the sea fox. And though she’d do it all again for Iseult, she could have done it differently. Safi could have considered the risks first and thought outside of herself.
But what Safi really hated—what made her itch to draw knives and eviscerate something—was that Uncle Eron had put this requirement in the contract at all.