Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(21)

The Solani’s face pinched. “I have a name, little lord. You could ask me for it.”

Robb bit his lip. “Where are we going?” he repeated, trying to look anywhere but at the Solani—at the cabinets, the rusted walls, the flickering halogen lights of the infirmary.

“The Tsarina.”

He gave a start. “What?”

“It’s Rasovant’s lost—”

“Fleetship. The coordinates. Yes, I know. We’re going?”

The Solani crossed his arms and leaned against the dormant medical console. “Yes, we are.”

I’m prisoner on a ship going to where I need to go, Robb realized. How lucky was that? If he played his cards right, he could use these pirates to get what he wanted. He just had to survive until then.

There had to be a catch. “Where do the coordinates point?” he asked.

“Palavar.”

Ah.

Cerces’s dark moon. Of course. It made sense. Where better to hide a solar ship than a place no solar light could reach?

“And no one’s following us?” he asked. “Not the Royal Guard or . . .” My mother, he thought, rubbing his thumb over the chip in his wrist. It hadn’t been activated yet, so his mother either didn’t know he was missing or didn’t care.

The Solani rolled his eyes. “Please, we lost the Royal Guard. Well, I lost them. Modesty is overrated.”

“And Vier— Captain Carnelian?”

“Lost her halfway around Eros. She’s eating my space dust.”

I wouldn’t count on that, he wanted to say, because if he knew Viera Carnelian at all—and he knew her better than most—she was viciously stubborn. And righteous.

The Solani inclined his head. “Now come on, we’re not staying in the infirmary.”

“We?”

“Yes, we. Someone has to keep an eye on our esteemed guest, and I drew the short straw. What’s your name?”

Did no one know he was a Valerio?

Am I really this lucky? he thought, putting down the suture pen. These criminals had bandaged him up. . . . Why would they do that if they wanted to kill him?

He said the first name that came to mind.

“Aragon.”

The Grand Duchess’s maiden name. Most of their descendants had died of the Plague, so these outlaws would be hard-pressed to catch him in the lie. And when lying, it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible.

“Robb Aragon.”

“All right, Robb Aragon. I’d say it was a pleasure meeting you, but I can’t lie.”

“What’s your name?”

The silver-haired boy cocked his head, as if debating for a moment. “Jax.”

“No last name?”

“Not one that matters. Now follow me.” Then Jax pushed himself off the old console and left the infirmary.

Robb—feeling like he didn’t have much of a choice—followed. The dried blood on his shirt crackled when he moved. The pain was horrible, but the smell was worse—rotten eggs and iron. He tried not to gag.

Of all the people to get hit by a stray bullet, it had to be him.

Goddess, he was cursed.

The stairs hurt. Walking hurt. Even breathing hurt. On the first level of the ship, the Solani showed him to an empty bed in the crew’s quarters. Two bunk beds sat on either side of the room, with a communal meeting area in the middle. His bunk was apparently across from Jax’s. The quarters were small—smaller than any room he’d ever slept in before—and smelled like fresh linens. A row of bookcases lined the far wall, filled with medical texts and ratty adventure books, the covers so worn they were falling off. This . . . wasn’t the type of living space he imagined when he thought of outlaws.

The rest of the crew were somewhere else on the ship—Robb could hear them shouting. He’d rather not meet them, but he knew he would eventually.

They’ll gut me and eat my insides, he thought, remembering the stories from the Academy.

“Here,” said Jax, handing him some clothes from a trunk.

Robb stared at them.

“Unless you want to go around smelling like a corpse, little lord.”

Little. A muscle in his jaw throbbing, he took the shirt and breeches. They smelled like lavender, reminding him of the skysailer, pressing his chest against the Solani’s back—

He swallowed thickly and turned his back to the silver-haired boy.

Unbuttoning his shirt, he winced as pain spiked across his ribs again, racing up his side. He managed to get one sleeve off, but it hurt to move his right side. After his third try, he noticed the Solani watching, sitting on the edge of his bunk with one leg draped over the other.

“Do you need assistance?” asked Jax, amused.

“I can do it,” he snapped, and to prove it, he unlaced the other sleeve and tore off the shirt, dried blood crinkling, and pulled the new shirt on. It was too baggy. He hesitated before he took off his breeches. “Do you mind?” he asked, giving Jax a pointed look.

“Mind what?”

“A bit of privacy?”

The silver-haired young man grinned then, toothy like a cat. “Afraid I’ll judge too harshly?”

Robb narrowed his eyes.

“Fine.” Jax sighed, turning to look toward the wall instead. “You know I’ve always heard Ironbloods were never any fun. Glad it wasn’t a lie.”