Graceling (Graceling Realm #1)(96)

The docks were eerie at night. The ships were black bodies as big as castles rising out of the sea, skeleton masts and flapping sails, with voices of invisible men echoing down from the riggings.

Each ship was its own little kingdom, with its own guards who stood, swords drawn, before the gangplank, and its own sailors who came and went from deck to dock or gathered around small fires on shore. Two boys moving among the ships, bundled against the cold and carrying a couple of worn bags, were far from noteworthy in this setting. They were runaways, or paupers, looking for work or passage.

A familiar lilt in the conversation of one group of guards caught Katsa’s ear. Bitterblue turned to her, eyebrows raised. “I hear it,” Katsa said. “We’ll keep walking, but remember that ship.”

“Why not speak to them?”

“There are four of them, and there are too many others nearby. If there’s trouble I’ll never be able to keep it quiet.”

Katsa wished suddenly for Po, for his Grace, so they might know if they were recognized, and if it mattered. If Po were here, he would know with a single question whether those Lienid guards were safe.

Of course, if Po were here their difficulty of disguise would be multiplied manyfold; between his eyes and the rings in his ears, and his accent, and even his manner of carrying himself, he would need to wear a sack over his head to avoid drawing attention. But perhaps the Lienid sailors would do anything their prince wished, despite what they’d heard? She felt his ring lying cold against the skin of her breast, the ring with the engravings that matched his arms.

This ring was their ticket if any Lienid ship was to serve them willingly, and not in response to the threat of her Grace or the weight of her purse. Though she would capitulate to her Grace or her purse if necessary.

They slipped past a group of smaller ships whose guards seemed to be involved in some kind of boasting match between them. One group Westeran and another “Monsean,” Bitterblue whispered, and though Katsa didn’t change her gait, her senses sharpened and her whole body tingled with readiness until they’d left those ships behind and several more beyond them. They continued on, blending into the darkness.

———

The sailor sat alone at the edge of a wooden walkway, his feet dangling over the water. The dock on which he sat led to a ship in an unusual state of activity, the deck swarming with men and boys. Lienid men and boys, for in ears and on fingers, in the light of their lanterns, Katsa caught flashes of gold. She knew nothing of ships, but she thought this one must either have just arrived or just be departing.

“Do ships set out in the dead of night?” she asked. “I have no idea,” Bitterblue said.

“Quickly. If it’s on its way out, all the better.” And if that lone sailor gave them trouble, she could drop him into the water and trust the men rushing across the deck of the ship above not to notice his absence.

Katsa slipped up onto the walkway, Bitterblue close behind. The man perceived them immediately. His hand went to his belt.

“Easy, sailor,” Katsa said, her voice low. “We’ve only a few questions.”

The man said nothing, and kept his hand at his belt, but he allowed the two figures to approach. As Katsa sat beside him, he shifted and leaned away – for better leverage, she knew, in case he decided to use his knife. Bitterblue sat next to Katsa, hidden from the man by Katsa’s body. Katsa thanked the Middluns for the darkness and their heavy coats, which hid her face and her form from this fellow.

“Where does your ship come from last, sailor?” Katsa asked.

“From Ror City,” he answered in a voice little deeper than hers, and Katsa knew him to be not a man but a boy –

broad and solid, but younger than she.

“You depart tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And where do you go?”

“To Sunport and South Bay, Westport, and Ror City again.”

“Not to Monport?”

“We have no trade with Monsea this time around.”

“Have you any news of Monsea?”

“It’s clear enough we’re a Lienid ship, isn’t it? Find a Monsean ship if it’s Monsean news you’re wanting.”

“What kind of man is your captain,” Katsa asked, “and what do you carry?”

“This is a good many questions,” the boy said. “You want news of Monsea and news of our captain. You want where we’ve been and what we’re carrying. Is Murgon employing children to be his spies, then?”

“I’ve no idea who Murgon employs to be his spies. We seek passage,” Katsa said, “west.”

“You’re out of luck,” the boy said. “We don’t need extra hands, and you don’t look the type to pay.”

“Oh? Graced with night vision, are you?”

“I can see you well enough to know you for a pair of ragamuffins,” the boy said, “who’ve been fighting, by the looks of that bandage on your eye.”

“We can pay.”

The boy hesitated. “Either you’re lying, or you’re thieves. I’d wager both are true.”

“We’re neither.” Katsa reached for the purse in the pocket of her coat. The boy unsheathed his knife and jumped to his feet.

“Hold, sailor. I only reach for my purse,” Katsa said. “You may take it from my pocket yourself, if you wish. Go on,” she said, as he hesitated. “I’ll keep my hands in the air and my friend will stand away.”