Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(39)

Behind me, Rocco says something too quiet for me to hear, but a moment later, I realize Kilbourne is pulling my apothecary trunk from the carriage.

“I can ensure your things reach your quarters,” he says. He nods to the captain.

I open my mouth, then close it. “Well, I—I suppose we can get out of the rain.”

The captain offers his arm again. After a moment, I take it.

The gangway isn’t very long, and as we draw close to the top, I see lanterns have been hung along the main deck, and figures in shadows are tying ropes and moving crates. I recognize Lieutenant Tagas and the others who were at dinner, but there are a few people I haven’t seen before. They’re calling orders and directions to each other, and there’s a sense of hurried preparation. No animosity, just a lively camaraderie. These are sailors who are used to working together. No, it’s more than that. These are sailors who like working together. It’s very different from the wary tension among the guards on the dock. The same wary tension that clings to the palace.

That knot of worry in my belly eases, just a bit.

The main deck is broad, with three masts supporting heavy sails, two of which are already unfurled. The largest mast is in the middle, nearly thirty feet high, with a crossbeam and crow’s nest at the top. The ropes lashing the ship to the dock strain and creak as the wind catches the sails. At the front of the ship, there’s a raised area leading to the prow, which is empty, but the back half—the aft, I think—has a set of doors that must lead into the officers’ quarters. Ropes and chains and rigging seem to be everywhere, and two men are lugging crates toward an open panel on the deck that must lead to a ladder. The boat shifts in the wind, and the younger one slips on the newly wet deck. The crate drops, cracking onto the planks. Wood creaks and splinters, but the crate stays together—barely.

The older man swears loudly, then growls, “I told you to have these in the hold an hour ago.”

“And I told you that—”

Captain Blakemore gives a short, sharp whistle through his teeth. “Gentlemen.”

They startle, then look over. The older one looks a bit mollified. “Sorry, Captain.” His Ostrian accent is thicker than the people who joined us at dinner. He gives me a nod. “Miss.” But then he turns a glare on the other man and grabs hold of the crate. “Try not to break my foot this time, Brock.”

Brock takes hold of the other side and snorts derisively. “Once these crates are loaded, I have a mind to break your face.”

All right, maybe not everyone likes working together.

The captain looks at me, and his eyes are bright, but his voice is sedate. “Forgive my crew. They can be a bit rough-spoken.”

I notice that he has a hint of their accent, too. I didn’t hear it at dinner. I wonder if it’s stronger now that he’s back among his shipmates. Something else he picked up in his six years in Ostriary, I suppose. “I grew up around the docks,” I say, waving off his concern. “I’m no stranger to the mouth of a sailor.”

The ship rocks hard against the dock, and my fingers dig into Captain Blakemore’s arm until I catch my balance. But then a second gust tilts the deck in the opposite direction, and I stumble forward, right into his chest.

He catches me easily, keeping me upright, seeming to have no trouble with the motion of the ship. I inhale sharply, because it puts us very close. His eyes are so dark in the shadowed moonlight.

At my back, Kilbourne clears his throat.

I struggle to right myself. “I’m sorry. It’s windy.” Another gust tugs at my skirts, and I nearly do it again. I wish I’d had the good sense to wear trousers. “What—ah, what were we saying?”

The captain smiles. “You were saying that you’re no stranger to the mouth of a sailor.”

In a second I’m going to have to throw myself overboard. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” He’s still smiling, but his gaze has turned a bit appraising. “So you’re familiar with a ship then.”

“Oh! No. Well, a little. I was raised here in Artis. My father was an apothecary, though. We used to treat the dockworkers.” I shiver. “I’ve seen it all. Sun poisoning, the Rose Rash in the winter, the Saltwater Cough in the summer months, the rope burns from the—”

The ship sways, nearly knocking me right into his chest again. Even Kilbourne staggers sideways with my trunk.

“Sorry,” I say again. “I’m sure I’ll find my sea legs in no time.”

Captain Blakemore catches my arm, but this time he glances at the sky, then frowns. The easygoing look vanishes from his eyes.

The two men from earlier are emerging from below the deck, and the captain looks to them. “Brock, check that rigging.” He looks across the deck, then whistles. “Gwyn!” he calls. “Drop that main sail. I want to shove off as soon as the prince is on board.” Without missing a beat, he looks back at me. “Come, Miss Cade. Let’s get you under cover.”





CHAPTER TWELVE

Corrick

For all the memories I have of my brother sneaking out of the palace as a boy, I don’t have any recent ones. The king can go where he likes, do what he likes, see who he likes. There’s never any need to sneak anywhere.

But tonight, he’s in the back corner of my carriage, wrapped in a cloak. I’m so keyed up about the journey that I almost shout for a guard before I recognize him.