Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky, #1)(64)

The two crewmen holding her arms forced her onto a bench, which was a shade nicer than making her kneel, she supposed. Callo sat across from her, eyes wary. He studied her, his perpetually wistful face even more so.

“Patu’s dead,” he said, big brown eyes searching hers. “Two men sick and unable to row, and soon maybe more.”

She widened her eyes theatrically, hoping he read her lack of empathy.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. And to think she’d thought marginally kind things about that face. Well, he could go to all seven hells now.

“We’re stuck here, Xiala,” he said. “We could row out, but without the wind to tell me which way, I could be sending us in circles. You know the stories of the doldrums. Men get lost in them. Die in them. And we’ve got sick men. We need land, and we need it fast.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You can help us!” one of the crew said from behind Callo. Her first mate—no, he was just a mutinous bastard now—waved him quiet.

She tried to talk through the gag, but it came out a mumble.

Callo sighed. “I’ll take it out, but no Singing, or Baat slits your throat.” He looked up at someone behind her, just off her shoulder, and she felt the cold press of a blade against her neck. Rage welled up in her chest, not fear. Fuckers!

Callo reached over and removed the gag.

“Fuck you, you rank traitorous—”

He stuffed the cloth back in her mouth. She growled around it, eyes flaring in rage.

Casually, he leaned forward and slapped her. An open hand across her cheek, so hard her head spun, and she was stunned to silence. The rage in her became something hot, molten. He had touched her. Not just touched. Hit.

Oh, he was going to die. She just wasn’t sure how or when. She let that sentiment show in the look she gave him, and he leaned back.

“Please, Xiala!” he said, voice rough with something that sounded like desperation. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I want…”

“I say we gut her like the fish she is,” Baat said, the blade back against her neck.

“Shut up,” Callo snapped. “Don’t you understand what’s happened to us? Where we are?” He wiped his palm across his sweating forehead.

Xiala’s eyes narrowed. Callo didn’t have any rough bumps, as Serapio had called them, but he was perspiring more than normal for an overcast morning, and he did look gray under his brown skin. Was he already ill with Patu’s disease?

“We’ll try again, right? I’ll take the gag out, and you’ll talk nicely. Not this swearing. Agreed?”

The rage was still there, simmering, and the sting of his hand against her skin lingered, but she was focused now. She wouldn’t waste her chance. She had to be smart.

She nodded.

He sighed, and reached out a second time and removed the gag. This time, she kept her mouth shut.

Callo watched her, waiting. Baat pressed the blade closer, and she felt the prick of the obsidian and a trickle of blood drip down her neck.

“Calm,” Callo said, either to her or to Baat or to both.

“What do you want?” she asked, and her voice only shook a little.

“Get us out of here, and once we see land, we let you go. Separate ways, no hard feelings.”

She would have laughed had she not been worried Baat would cut an artery.

“After what you’ve done to me? Mutinied? Taken my ship? My fucking ship!”

“Xiala,” he said, sounding resigned. “You promised.”

“I did not fucking promise you anything!”

He started to lift the rag again.

“Okay, okay,” she said quickly. “No more ranting. I… I’ll talk.”

He looked at her, long and thoughtful. “Lord Balam—” he started.

“Gave me this ship,” she said, voice as calm and dead as the waters around them. “He made me captain. You think he won’t have you hanged for mutiny, you’re wrong.”

Callo exhaled, dipping his chin, eyes on the deck between his feet.

“You’re dead, Callo,” she hissed. “You were dead as soon as you locked me in that room. If Patu’s sickness hasn’t already gotten you, Cuecola justice will.”

“Stop.”

“Some of you may get out alive,” she said, pitching her voice to the crew. “Tell them Callo made you do it, that the mutiny was his idea.”

He looked up, his eyes narrowed. “I fought to keep you alive. They wanted to kill you as soon as Loob died.”

“You did it for yourself, not me. You know I had to cut that rope to save this asshole.” She rolled her eyes upward to indicate Baat. “Pretty sure Loob was dead when I got to him, and this one”—again she gestured toward Baat—“panicked. Probably kicked his friend in the head on the way down. Killed him himself…” She trailed off, the truth dawning as she said the words.

“Kill her now,” Baat said, pressing the blade deeper into her skin. It didn’t hurt as much as sting where the air hit the wound, but the blood felt plentiful, too plentiful, as it started to pool in her collarbone and stain her borrowed shirt.

“Hold.” Callo raised a hand for Baat, eyes still on her. “Is that it, then? We all die together?”

“I’m not dying, you traitorous shit. Did you already forget why you locked me in that room? I can swim.”