Smoke and Iron (The Great Library #4)(21)

“How do you know?” Glain asked. “You’re a terrible sailor.”

“I do read,” Dario shot back. “Try it sometime.”

“Stop bickering,” Santi said. “Focus. We can’t wait. This ship is making the turn toward the strait. We’re out of time. Khalila splits off once we reach the deck, makes her way to the port side of the bridge, where she places the charge and comes to us as soon as possible. As soon as we hear that explosion, we breach the starboard door, and we do what we must to steer this ship to Cadiz. Use the least violence we have to, but don’t hesitate. Understood?”

“Yes,” they all said, in unison.

“Then, let’s go.”

Khalila looked at Dario for an instant that seemed like an eternity, then quickly placed a kiss on his cheek.

That was the only good-bye she would allow herself.





CHAPTER SIX




What seemed simple enough became vastly more complex the moment the door opened to the deck of the ship. When she’d last been up here, Khalila had been admiring the oncoming storm’s distant beauty. In the heart of it, there was only brutality. The wind hit like hammer blows, and the rain drove needles into her exposed skin; the deck pitched and yawed, wallowing in the deep waves. Water surged over the metal decks and threatened to drag her over, until Thomas clamped a hand on her and held her tight against the pull. She gasped in gratitude, though she was worried that he’d not be able to anchor her and keep a good grip on his very dangerous box . . . and then she realized, as she blinked away stinging salt spray, that Glain had a hand on his other arm. They’d all linked, instinctively.

The crew had strung ropes around the deck. Anchors to cling to, when the sea broke across the deck. She broke Thomas’s grip and lunged for one of those. The others could brace one another, but she was going to have to make her own way now.

If anyone called after her, she couldn’t hear in the roar of the storm. Lightning broke the sky on the port side, a spear forking from heaven to drive into the sea, and the thunder slammed into her like a physical blow. She’d gone a few feet from the others, and already she’d lost sight of them. Good cover, she told herself. Her heart was racing and her mouth was dry, and she was terrified. Her dress, soaking and heavy now, threatened to trip her. She moved down the rope as quickly as she could, heading for the port side of the ship. When she touched that railing, she ducked under the rope and followed the railing toward the stern of the ship. The bridge was up a set of stairs.

Another, more distant shock of lightning illuminated the steps before she passed by them, and she lunged for a handhold and had begun to climb up when the door at the top swung open and a sailor muffled in a thick rainproof coat stepped out.

They stared at each other in surprise.

Khalila moved first. She backed down to the pitching deck and shoved the box inside the sodden fleece of the robe she wore.

Then she drew her sword, and as the sailor shut and secured the waterproof door at the top, she waited with the blade concealed behind her.

“What are you doing here?” he shouted at her over the roar, and came down toward her.

Forgive me, she thought, in the instant before she lunged.

Her balance was off, and the ship plunged into a trough in that second, throwing the sailor forward and her blade lower than she intended. It slid into his stomach, not his heart, and she felt a blind second of panic as he screamed—but no one could hear it. She tugged the sword free and lunged again, and this time, her aim was true. She felt the sword scrape lightly against a rib, then slip deep toward his heart.

He took one step toward her and collapsed.

Her heart hammered so loudly it was almost as deafening as the storm, and she gasped for breath against the shock of what she’d done. It had been necessary, she knew that, but even so . . . Khalila shoved the bloody sword back into her belt with cold, trembling hands and hurried up the steps. She opened the box, set the magnetic charge, and even as she adjusted it to the right spot on the door, just as Thomas had shown her, she wondered how anyone could possibly hear even this explosion in all the howl of the storm.

It didn’t matter. She had to proceed, regardless. She pulled the tab, igniting the fuse that Thomas had put inside the device, and turned to go down the steps.

Someone crouched there, blocking her way. Another sailor, looking at the man she’d killed. He hadn’t noticed her yet. She slipped down toward him, and as he rose, she braced herself on the slick railings and kicked out with both feet, sending him crashing into the port-side railing. Ten seconds. She needed to be clear of the stairs, but he was still blocking her path.

He turned like a cat to grab her as she tried to dart past him onto the deck.

Time to use the dagger, which she tried to do, but this man was warier and faster, and he caught her wrist in a crushing grip and twisted. She lost the blade. No space to draw the sword, but there was more to a weapon than just the edge; she grabbed a handful of the thick fleece gown and used it to cushion her hand against the blade as she shoved it upward, and the rough pommel of the sword collided sharply with his chin. His head snapped back, more in surprise than in real harm, and she stepped forward to put her right foot behind his left, and twisted into his grip instead of away.

He went down, mouth an open O of surprise, and hit the deck hard. He rolled for the knife, but she found it first and dropped on her knees to bury it in his throat.