Evanne nodded. “It’s what I do.”

  “Will you make the music that sets us free?” This came from the sewing box, which hopped about her ankles.

  “I don’t think I can.” She held up her free hand, palm out. “Hold up. Not because I don’t want to, but because that’s not my gift. But I know someone.”

  “Then we are here to ‘help out’.” The sewing box bounced happily. “Eight hundred years is a long time to be a sewing box.”

  “No kidding.” Evanne’s teeth rattled as the dais stopped not quite at the bottom of the shaft. She hopped over the edge, followed by the mimic contingent. The doorway outside was still ajar, the buildings previously on the deck mostly scrubbed away by the ship’s rise through water and rock. “Speaking of someone, where the hell is she? Ah. Yo! Morgan!”

  The Raven knelt by the railing, Pakhet hunched beside her. The giant tiger had Hitch’s armour strapped to her, but otherwise looked the same. Morgan looked like she grieved. No tears, nothing like that. Face an implacable mask, but so hard it looked brittle. Eyes dry, but like the frozen wastes, all the water turned to crystal by driving cold. Shoulders straight, back straighter still. The pair knelt in the shadow of the ship poised above them. Evanne turned her gaze to it. It wasn’t ever as big as Dancing in the Storm, and there wasn’t much of it left.

  The two ships were still locked together, but without the embrace of rock, that wouldn’t last long. The ship above them groaned, shifted, perhaps threatening to topple and squash them flat. A hatchway on the side banged open as if in agreement, then tore free, tumbling the long way down to clatter on the deck.

  The queen stood, smoothed her jerkin as if it were a court gown, and clasped her hands before her. Waiting. Well, of course she wants me to go to her. Queens don’t hustle after other people. No matter. Evanne understood the Trick being played here, one not on her, or even for her, but for Morgan. Whatever was going on in her head needed this, and Evanne could give a little. So, she hustled over, then noticed the mimics weren’t following. They clustered in the door’s shadow. “Guys. What’s up?”

  “The sunlight,” the sewing box explained. “It will cleanse us.”

  “A bath doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “Not that kind of cleansing.”

  It’s never easy, is it? “Stick around. This is the person I know.” She jerked a thumb at the Raven. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried over to Morgan. As she drew nearer, Morgan’s distress was more apparent by how immobile she was. Evanne pulled to a halt a few metres clear, because she knew rushing up to a troubled horse was the surest way to get a kick. “You good?”

  “I am well. Thank you for asking.” Morgan’s speech was impeccable, crisp, cut from the same block of ice behind her eyes. “Are you well, too?”

  Evanne veered away from the trap, because it dawned on her: Heser the Cheg was not here. She felt her heart clench, her breath freeze. It can’t be. I sent them away to be safe. So no one else would fall on my account. Her voice hitched, scratched, and stumbled, not at all like Morgan’s cool tones. “Where is Uncle Heser?”

  “He … stayed behind.” A tiny tic in her lower eyelid was all the release the Raven allowed herself.

  “He was supposed to. You were both supposed to be protected!” Evanne felt the ice flow beneath her crack, halves separate, drift apart. “He was supposed to be safe.”

  “He was not.” Morgan straightened further, if it was possible. “Will you put this ship down so we can retrieve him?”

  Evanne glanced to the side. “He’s down there?”

  “Was. Past tense.”

  “I don’t know how. I, I… Uh.” Evanne took a step back. Morgan’s face had seized, lips parted, no air coming through. “What’s wrong?”

  A shining red length of steel emerged from Morgan’s stomach, glistening and wet. Evanne staggered forward, not understanding. Her hand found Morgan’s, the queen’s grip strong and desperate. Evanne tried to push the steel back, but her fingers slipped on slick metal. Her eyes met Morgan’s. She saw terror, pain, and confusion.

  The steel whipped back, and Evanne felt a ghost of Hitch within her. Saw the coming move and kicked Morgan aside. The red arc of steel slashed the air where the queen’s neck had been a moment earlier. She roared, charged empty space, and collided with someone. Evanne took the sword to her shoulder for her trouble and considered it fair payment for having the Feybrind in her grip.

  But, not for very long. Dancing Stars snaked free. It was like trying to hold water without a glass. Evanne scrambled away, backing toward Morgan. The Raven panted, blood slicking the deck beneath her. Evanne found her hand again, gripped it. Held it close. “Speak to me, Morgan.”

  “The pain is exquisite,” the Raven admitted. “But I believe I’ve had enough of this. Will you buy me a few moments?”

  “So you can die alone? Fuck, no.”

  A withering stare, still intact despite her wound. “Just this once, Evanne, will you do me the courtesy of⁠—”

  Whatever the courtesy was supposed to be was lost as steel glinted in the air. Evanne pushed Morgan away, using the shove to roll herself the opposite way. Steel rang against metal decking, then again, stabbing where Evanne was, so she just kept rolling. Her back shored up against a slump of detritus, allowing a pause, then she surged sideways as the light shifted around the Feybrind’s cloak. The steel sank into the debris behind Evanne, then came free with wood affixed to the blade.

  It would buy her seconds, at best. Evanne stood, realised she’d lost her guitar in her tumbling, and swore.

  Tarragon’s voice came from the air to her left. “Evanne, runaaaaiiiiieeee!”

  The fairy was an invisible captive. Evanne felt fear closely followed by murderous rage. She bared not-quite-shark-teeth, snarling, and lunged for the air. Her fingers caught a scrap of unseeable cloth, gripped, then lost it. She whirled, lunged again, missed, stumbled, and then screamed as her back felt the lick of steel.

  She staggered, back arched, and cried out. Turned once more, anger burning hotter. She has my Tarragon. She stabbed my queen. And she stabbed me! Payment is overdue. Evanne held her hand out. “Hitch. I need you.”

  The spectre stepped into her, a whisper of cold, a feeling of heat, and they were one. His voice came in her mind. “She will banish me again.”

  “Until then, we make her pay. See? There.” Evanne looked to red drip-dripping to the deck a handful of paces away. The Feybrind’s blade might be invisible, but the blood she’d taken from Morgan and Evanne wasn’t.

  “I see.” Hitch breathed with her lungs, breath frosting out, gravecold settling over her. S/he stepped toward the blood, heard the gritty whisper of boots against mud muck, and turned. They felt the air of the blade as it passed by, not a handspan from their face. S/he reached for the path of the weapon, found steel and a fursoft hand. Feet braced, shoulder up, and twist, sending the Feybrind away.

  A whump as Dancing Stars hit the deck. Evanne followed—or was it Hitch? Was there a difference?—a predator after prey, teeth bared. Found empty space on the ground, no body, because Feybrind were quick. Evanne cried out as the blade’s edge kissed her shoulder blade. Hitch held her safe while he rolled them forward, away from doom and pain. Evanne stood. Hitch dropped their stance. Evanne snarled. Hitch steadied their breath.

  They waited. One, ready, poised. Evanne said, “Come, witch.”

  “You’ve found your ghost. Quaint.” The Feybrind’s voice was on the wind, behind Evanne, before her, everywhere. “That’s enough of that.”

  A wrench, and Evanne staggered as Hitch was ripped from her. She felt the shiver of loss, Hitch’s cry of frustration only for her ears. Evanne felt about, and knew he was nowhere close. She cocked her head, feeling for the Trick of how Hitch stood, and copied it. “You speak as if you understand how I fight. Aren’t Feybrind supposed to be wise?”

  A slight pause, then Dancing Stars’ voice came from her right. “You can’t fight like him. He isn’t with you anymore.”

  “He is always with me.” Evanne touched her heart. Another Trick, a lie between friends this time. “He is here.”

  The Feybrind stabbed her through the gut this time. Evanne wheezed forward, hunched over the sword, head finding safe harbour against the Feybrind’s invisible shoulder. Dancing Stars’ lips were next to her ear. “Can he feel this?” She wiggled the steel.

  Evanne hurt too much to scream, so she settled for a right cross. There was no curry in it, what with the piece of steel in her stomach, but she connected. The Feybrind danced back, taking her steel in a rush of white-hot agony.

  Evanne swayed with the wind. Felt its cold kiss, her lifeblood dripping beneath her. Straightened, and smiled, a hard Trick but a necessary one. “You are nothing like the People. You enjoy the pain of others.”

  “I am like all of us. The ones who cannot speak because we were made to be mute. Who feel the lash of scorn. Whose birthright is servitude. We were made to be beneath your feet, but we’re above you.”

  Movement by the far railing drew Evanne’s eye. A sewing box, keeping to the shadows, was hustling their way. A sea chest hunched along behind it. She looked away, because someone was coming over the opposite railing. For a moment she dared hope Uncle Heser then saw this person was dead far longer than moments. He was joined by another, then another. The damned were coming for them.

  Great.

  A flicker of the light drew Evanne’s wandering eye. Before her, a ripple flickered through the air, revealing Dancing Stars rushing at her, blade high. Evanne felt surprise, then elation, dropped low, and put her shoulder into the Feybrind’s midriff. Stood, all brute strength, and tossed her over her shoulder. It bought her time to take stock. Ah. Morgan lay on the deck, finger tracing lines through a pool of her own blood. Evanne saw a stylised eye within a ring. The ritual wasn’t much, a thumb on the scales at best, but it took away some of Dancing Stars’ cloak’s power.

  Evanne spun back to the Feybrind, who’d wasted no time in gaining a little distance. She still had the damnable blade. With her free hand she lifted a cage lashed to her belt, giving it a shake. Within, a tiny glimmer. Tarragon. The Feybrind held the tip of her steel to the cage. “Do you want to see her die?”

  “What do you want?” Evanne didn’t let her eye follow the sewing box’s trek across the deck.

  “I want this ship.” Dancing Stars raised an eyebrow. “I want it all. Every secret and piece of stray magic.”

  “No problem,” Evanne said. “Take it.” She was mindful the dead shambled closer, more of their fellows coming from over the side. The ship, perhaps listening, groaned a stressed metal cry, wallowing in the sky. The shadow of the enemy vessel shifted.

  “I don’t believe you’ll let me have it.” The Feybrind half-smiled.

  “Then why ask?” Evanne touched her belly. The wound seeped, but the flow had staunched already. A gift from her father, but she needed her mother more now. A blade, and mastery of it. The Storm on a leash, the Sway at her call.

  The sewing box was almost here. The Feybrind hadn’t seemed to notice. “I want you to give it to me because you’ve nothing left to give. I want to know you mean it.” She shook the cage, Tarragon falling against the bars. The fairy screamed, then fell to the bottom.

  “Excuse me.” Pakhet appeared behind Dancing Stars, the great tiger massive and towering, a grey menace.

  The Feybrind spun, sword in guard, then froze as she looked up, cage falling from nerveless fingers, then looked up some more at the tiger. “What? Where? How?”

  “I am magnificent, I know.” Pakhet yawned a razor maw of mincing ivory, then closed her mouth with a snap. “Is now a bad time to talk?”

  “Now,” Evanne hissed. “Now!”

  The sewing box lunged, snapping at the binding lashing Tarragon to the Feybrind’s belt. Dancing Stars turned to the new threat, but the sewing box made good time, scurrying across the deck with cage in tow. Dancing Stars made to follow then stopped short at the sea chest before her. It opened, revealing not a cosy interior of folded blankets and keepsakes, but a wet, slavering maw.

  The first undead soldier arrived, stabbing the sea chest, which didn’t seem to mind. It turned, lunged, snapped closed, and then there was one less undead warrior on the deck.

  Dancing Stars sprinted after the sewing box, but she was mere mortal flesh. The little mimic moved with a speed that other sewing boxes couldn’t hope to match, breaking away from the living dead, the Feybrind, the giant tiger, and all other danger to race toward the open door at the base of the tower.

  Evanne liked the box’s approach. She bent, nabbed a stray rock, lined up her shot, and hurled at Dancing Stars’ head. The rock hit, bang, a perfect shot. The Feybrind stumbled, turned with a snarl, then reached to her belt. She pulled free a curious stick-like object, which Evanne would have called a wand if it wasn’t so crooked. Raising it high, she said, “Murder them all. Do it now.”

  Evanne thought the deck had been well populated with undead warriors, but she realised that was a failure of imagination. Over the side, a wave of corpses rose, rusted swords and warped branches in hand, some with armour, some naught but bones. The previously shambling husks scurried with renewed vigour alongside their reinforcements. Which was more or less fine, because the sewing box had made it half-way to the doorway, and the tiny mimic carried the most important thing in Evanne’s life to safety. She straightened, held her hands up just like Hitch did, and beckoned with her left hand. “Come get some.”

  The Feybrind obliged, leaping toward Evanne. She tried to pivot, but the damn cat was faster than the wind. Evanne took the sword to her gut again, groaning over the blade, falling to the deck as Dancing Stars whipped it free. She coughed blood, then looked up at the Feybrind. Majestic. Beautiful, in a way no human or Vhemin could hope to be. Eyes like jewels, demanding a yearning to meet soul to soul. But within Evanne, that lick of sickness when she was around the People, the thing she’d pushed down and away.

  It was so tiresome, but now she held it. Grabbed it, hard, and stood. Wiped bloody drool from her lips, snarled right back. “Best you got?”

  The cat’s eyes widened a micron in surprise, but clearly having been raised to not disappoint, lunged at Evanne again. This time, Evanne took the blade across her ribs, the hot burning pain a welcome distraction from the holes in her stomach. She grappled with Dancing Stars, half-Vhemin strength against Feybrind. Not a contest she could win, but she wasn’t trying to win. I just need a little more time. The deck shifted beneath them, Dancing in the Storm listing to starboard. The ship shuddered as it gouged the hillock the Raven had climbed from. The ruined hulk above them shifted. Sunlight glinted.

  A shaft of golden dawn fell across the sewing box. The box was mid-hop, and for a moment Evanne saw who it used to be. A lad, perhaps twelve, which defied belief because what could a twelve-year-old do that demanded an age of servitude. She saw his ghostly outline, blue-green and shot through with all the colours of the sun. Arched in pain or release, then he was gone.

  The box clattered open, spools of thread and needles spilling forth. Just a sewing box once more.

  Dancing Stars saw it too. Chuckled into Evanne’s ear, held so close as if they were lovers. “Now I will get your fairy, and we’ll end this as we should have.”

  “Don’t,” Evanne coughed, “count on it.” For good measure, she head-butted Dancing Stars, the Feybrind falling back, hand to nose, and surprised to see it coming back bloody.

  And now, Evanne had the sword. She took two breaths, thought don’t think about it, and yanked it from her ribs. She flourished the blade to stop from fainting and felt for a Trick. One she learned from a great person, strong in all the right ways. Aunt Barret wouldn’t have even blinked when stabbed, and Evanne let none of the pain show on her face. For Tarragon.

  Because from the door across the deck spilled the mimics. Large ones, small ones, all of them angry. They kept to the remaining shadow, running toward their fallen comrade, and to Tarragon. The dead surged toward them. Evanne leaned back into one of Hitch’s favourite fighting stances, blade held low as she remembered Mama doing. What did she call it? Low guard. Offhand up, once again beckoning. “I can do this all day. Can you?”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Tarragon bounced along the deck in her cage. Whatever tool Dancing Stars used to elicit pain was left behind on the foul monster’s belt, so that was a plus. But she wanted to cry when the little mimic died, because she saw he was like her: too small for this world, too easy to break. Perhaps, unlike her, he’d been too brave to care, and now he was gone. The slightly larger mimic dragging her forward was a suitcase. There seemed precious use for suitcases in this new world she’d woken to, but it looked a fashionable piece of luggage and earnest in its intent to take her to safety.

  She held the bars of her prison, watching as she drew further from Evanne. The maybe-Vhemin held a sword and a bloody grin with equal ferocity. But her opponent was Feybrind. They’d been made to win at everything. Dancing Stars was heavy with years and experience, and Evanne was but sixteen summers.

  I don’t want to watch.

  The nightmare corpses swarming the deck met the mimics with a clatter of metal on wood. An armoire that was polished to a shine Tarragon quite liked opened up, gobbled a corpse, then snapped shut. A moment later the doors opened, revealing racks and hangers, but no corpse. Just … gone. Then it was beset by three unholy warriors and hacked to pieces. Amid the debris, there was no fallen corpse, but Tarragon saw the outline of a woman with long hair sketched in the air, her arm reaching for the sky, and then her spirit was absent, the wreckage limp and dead.

  “Get me a sword,” she said to no one and everyone. No one and everyone ignored her. “Get me out of this box!”

  The suitcase paused. “We need safe haven from the Three’s sight. We were not made with their consent.”

  Tarragon gripped the bars of her prison. “You mean you were made in violation of the Holomancer’s three laws?”