Her head hurt and she couldn’t think straight.

  They hauled her into a small room, gagged her, bound her hands behind her, and stacked her against a wall. She landed next to a familiar man. Lord Meriwether du Reeves, unconscious, a trickle of blood running from his temple, another leaking from his nose.

  The small room was metal lined like much of the ship, and equipped with a single door leading to outside the hull. A box sat in one corner. It looked ugly, arcane runes etched across its surface glittering in the dim light. Morgan didn’t know what it was, but suspected it was the kind of surprise that could kill a room full of people with nary a wasted gram of effort. She imagined what was coming next. Once they had rounded up the ruling elite, a quick knife-stab, and out the door to tumble to the green grass below. Keep them alive for leverage against each other, then tuck them all in for the long night together.

  The ancients were masters at efficient death.

  The dragon had flown the coop yesterday, taking Evanne’s message of hope to Vertiline and Armitage. Morgan wished they were here. No one would have knocked Armitage out or come upon Vertiline unaware. Morgan groaned, head giving a nightmare stab of pain. What they could really use about this point was a giant tiger. Pakhet was the sort of threat most people noticed. The tiger was in a sulk after the dragon’s arrival, and no one had seen her since.

  Typical.

  They dragged Heser in next, stacking his body against the opposite wall. Morgan’s heart gave an unqueenly lurch at his prone form, but the rise and fall of his chest said he yet lived. She wanted to go to him and offer small comforts but her hands were bound, and that had never been her strong suit anyway.

  The surprise was Tarragon. The once-fairy came trussed like a prize hog, sword still sheathed at hip, hissing and spitting like a cat. Morgan felt better at that, because Tarragon was fearsome with a blade, so if they’d managed to nab her before she drew steel, this wasn’t a two-baron operation. They had skills. A shadow of guilt settled just behind her shoulder, and whispered, You thought peasants did this, but the Vide are master infiltrators. They couldn’t win head on. How better to gain local support than by selling the story of a wonton ruler leaving her flock? It would give them the ship they craved, and a crew to boot.

  Fearsome or no, Tarragon was sucker-punched by a man with an ugly scar running from temple to jaw. He had the look of one who enjoyed the work, dropping the not-fairy to the ground like a sack of rotten meal. He gave Morgan a leer, but it was perfunctory at best, the man clearly faced with other priorities. He ducked out, and Morgan wondered, Where is Evanne?

  On cue, Hitch stepped through the wall, took quick stock of the device on the floor, then said, “That’s a bomb. I’ll be right back.”

  The Raven Queen had a moment to think in the silence following his departure. The spectre’s visibility courtesy of Meri’s casting was useful, but it made Hitch less potent as a spy. Then she winced, because he was a dead man, and here she was wondering what kind of tool he was. He’d done his service and then more, as Evanne told the tale. Gave his all, eaten by his armour and cause all in one, dying for a love and duty that couldn’t be parted.

  Morgan heard the tramp of hurried feet on metal decking. A moment later, Evanne poked her head through the doorway. She crouched beside Tarragon first, laying her guitar against the floor, then glared at everything, all at once. “She’s hurt.”

  “Hmmph,” Morgan agreed.

  Evanne’s eyebrows softened a midge, and she shuffled over, removing Morgan’s gag, then going to work on her bindings. “What news, cousin?”

  “A coup d'état,” Morgan suggested. “The Vide.”

  “Motherfuckers,” Evanne hissed. “Where’s Tarragon’s sword?”

  “Oi,” said the scar-faced man, who now stood at the doorway.

  Evanne stood in one supple, smooth motion. Morgan admired her youth, but also her enthusiasm, because her niece charged, shoulder-slamming the rough-hewn bruiser. He was not a small man, but she had her wind up, knocking him clear of the door. She kicked the door shut, spun the wheel, and looked to the other door. “Ah.”

  “Yes.” Morgan released her feet. “That way leads to the ground, by way of a long drop.”

  “Hitch!” The spectre appeared before Evanne. “I need an exit.”

  “The, uh.” The shade turned pale blue eyes on the exterior door, then to the inner. “What’s wrong with punching our way out?”

  “I have no problem with it.” Evanne grunted. “Can you take them?”

  “They’re trained assassins.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s a variable maybe.”

  “Shit.” Evanne looked to the floor as if it held answers. “I need my scattergun.”

  The door slammed open, and the scar-faced ugly stood there, fury incarnate. Behind him, two others, purpose in every movement. Scar Face roared, swinging at Evanne.

  Morgan couldn’t remember actually seeing Hitch become Evanne, or she him, or whatever the spell was, but she saw it now. The ghost slipped into her, and Morgan was reminded of a great koi swimming through murky water. Hitch was one with Evanne, and the daughter of Vertiline and Armitage stiffened a moment. Took a shuddering breath and blinked. Then stepped inside the bruiser’s swing.

  She dropped into a low horse stance, the knife edge of her hand striking the thug’s groin with truly eye-watering force. Evanne stood as the man descended, bringing her rising elbow into his jaw. Teeth flew in a bloody ivory shower. She dropped back and away, using the momentum to bounce her foot against the ground, turning momentum into torque, and landing a hellish spinning kick into the man’s jaw.

  One Vide in the doorway drew a scattergun. Evanne growled, “That’s mine!” Then she whipped her leg about, catching the door with her heel. The scattergun fired, the noise a blow itself in the close confines of the room, but the pellets hit the door. Morgan imagined a scream from outside, but it could just have been the ringing in her ears.

  The door banged back open and Evanne charged through. It slammed shut behind her. There was a scream, then more scattergun shots. Silence, then three sharp bangs as if a man’s head was bounced against steel, but with vigour. A spray of blood showered the small window in the hallway door. Another scream, then the clatter of steel as a blade fell to the deck, and the crrrack of a neck breaking.

  Morgan thought, Three’s Mercy. What kind of warrior was Hitch? She’d never seen someone fight like that, not paper knights in tourneys, nor during the war. There was no brutish misconfiguration of limbs in how he commanded Evanne’s body. It was precise, craft not even the Feybrind could master. The Tresward could have bested her, but they’d need more than a single gold bar’s weight on the black sash, or Morgan was a turnip.

  The door slammed open. Evanne stood, swaying slightly, her entire left side coating in someone else’s blood. She carried her scattergun and a lazy grin. Cool, frosted mist trickled between her teeth as she said, “There are a lot of them.”

  Morgan noted the blue tinge on Evanne’s lips. “You are pushing too hard.”

  “Hey, I didn’t set the table here. I’m just eating at it.” Evanne leaned against the doorframe, breath misting from her in a long, slow stream. She pressed her hand to her chest. “Not now, dammit.”

  “Something amiss?”

  “My heart is slowing. Hitch says I’m getting something called hypothermia and wants to leave, but we’ve yet work to do.”

  “What about⁠—”

  “A moment.” Evanne tossed the scattergun to the floor, rounded on an assailant who entered the room in a rush, and was taken from view as the two tussled.

  Morgan fielded the fallen weapon. Empty, of course. She sighed, stood, and heaved the bomb through the door and into the corridor. It feels good to be doing something. An explosive from ancient times may be sufficient to destroy this ship, and I’d prefer to not share air with it. That priority squared away, she knelt by Heser’s side. He was still out. She placed a hand against his face, felt the rasp of stubble on his cheek, and placed a gentle kiss against his brow. I don’t know what I am to you, but you are the most important person in the world to me. I wish I had Evanne’s courage. Then I could tell you.

  The door banged open, and four people dragged a limp Evanne inside. The young woman’s hands were bound behind her. They threw her to the ground. She groaned and flopped over. “Just a minute,” she rasped to no one in particular. She looked vacant, disorganised, like a house with torches in the cellar, but no light in the living quarters. “I just need a minute.”

  “A minute you shall have.” Morgan stood, pulling the ragged remnants of her authority about her as she faced the Vide. She still had the scattergun, which she levelled with a cool smile. “I have but one round in this weapon. Which of you desires it most?”

  This caused a moment’s reflection. The woman nearest the door said, “She’s bluffing. It’s empty.”

  “I see you want it.” Morgan swivelled, pointing the gun in her general direction. “The problem we have here is a failure to communicate. We know people are on the side of good because they use their words to be understood. Villains seize power by brute force.”

  “Says the woman with the gun.” A lean man to her right looked tense as a guy wire, so she pointed the weapon at him.

  “I see you understand the irony of this situation.” Morgan kept her smile in place. “It’s time to talk what happens next. No, sirrah,” she pointed the gun to the man edging to her left, “you will not sneak behind me.”

  “You kill one of us, three remain,” the woman at the door said.

  “I see you have your basic letters and numbers.” Morgan nodded approval. “My advisers told me the peasantry had lost it all, yet pockets of brilliance remain.”

  “Are you taking the piss?” The Vide looked like she couldn’t decide between anger and incredulity.

  Morgan’s smile widened. “I am using my words to communicate. We are all learning together.” She gestured with the scattergun, urging the man on her left toward the door. He moved back, slow as you like. “While three remain, the one I shoot will be dead. This weapon is quite the marvel. It is not like any of the Tresward’s holy weapons. They have but two rounds before reloading. This has a whole chamber of mayhem, ready to unfurl. It makes me wonder what they were fighting.”

  “I say we rush her,” the Vide woman said.

  Evanne stood, lips still blue, but eyes clear. “Okay, thanks. I got it now.”

  The lean man snorted. “You are bound and weaponless.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Over here?” Evanne walked to the side of the room, clearly speaking with the spectre in her head. She leaned into the wall, eyes closed, while Morgan kept her weapon on the assassins. With a lurch, Evanne slammed her shoulder into the wall. She screamed, swayed, then dropped, her now dislocated shoulder allowing her pass hands under feet and get her bonds in front.

  “Fuck,” the Vide woman said.

  “Finish the mission!” The lean man broke for the door. Evanne lurched in pursuit. The lean assassin bent over the bomb, pushing a mechanism. Morgan thought, This is the end, is it? All our efforts, lost.

  But Evanne wasn’t running for combat. She shoulder-barged the door, and Morgan heard a sick pop as her shoulder went back in. Evanne spun the door’s latching wheel.

  The device outside exploded, the port window into the corridor a flash of yellow-white. The entire room surged, metal shrieking, and Morgan slammed into the inner wall alongside Evanne. She bit her tongue, bashed her forehead, and then surprised herself by screaming.

  Because they were falling. She could see through the exterior door, now facing the earth below, as they plummeted toward their doom.

  Chapter Ten

  Amir didn’t like babysitting.

  Vertiline and Armitage took a trip west. The hulking brute said there could be monsters that way, by which Amir thought he meant Vhemin and was trying to make a joke. It was difficult to tell with Armitage, because the man didn’t smile when he delivered the punchline.

  The High Justiciar had left Amir, Faust, and Larochette in charge. She had been very clear with Amir: Stay here. If the dragon returns, send it west.

  He had no real clue how one went about sending a dragon anywhere it didn’t want to go, but her cool gaze stilled his normally overactive tongue. So, Amir waited, babysitting merchants, their ponies, doing drills, and trying not to get hammered into the floor when it was his bout with Faust. The two Feybrind stayed with the camp, Sight of Day being a useful addition to their cooking rota, and Sands Apart being a useful addition to the lessons of vigilance with an enemy in your midst.

  Although: she has not tried to kill any of us. Odd, but true. Neither were here, hunting game off in the low hills to the east. Amir was fine with that because venison would be a nice dinner to have.

  The morning was chilly but heading in the right direction with gentle sunbeams that warmed his face. Breakfast was a recent memory. Amir nursed a bitter cup of coffee when he saw the dragon on the horizon. “Faust! Larochette!”

  The two straightened, following the line of his arm. Faust rumbled, “Good eyes, brother.”

  “Heightened by fear, no doubt,” Larochette said.

  The dragon came straight for them, but this time landed a good hundred metres from the camp. No doubt it was learning what a hazard terrified horses were. Amir tossed the dregs of his coffee aside, adjusted his sword belt, ran a hand through his hair, and tried to stop his legs shaking. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Do you need company?” By which Faust meant, do you want to burn to a crisp alone or with a friend?

  “I’ll be right as rain.” By which Amir meant, company would be good but two corpses won’t balance the scales of our lives.

  Amir felt it important not to hurry. The dragon looked like it was very sure of himself already, and there was no need to elevate his ego further. The walk to Myryntir gave Amir some time to prepare. Dragon, you are commanded to go west, sounded a quick way to get crisped. Dragon, the High Justiciar begs your attention, sounded like something only a wanker would say.

  And before he knew it, there he was at the dragon’s feet. The beast was immense. His mind had allowed him to forget this small detail in the past days, but his bladder remembered well enough. He gazed up at Myryntir. “Um.”

  //HELLO, TINY BEING.// The dragon gazed down at him. //WHERE’S YOUR BOSS?//

  “Ah.” Amir cleared his throat. “The thing is, west.”

  Myryntir cocked his head. //ARE YOU MISSING ANY WORDS IN THAT SENTENCE?//

  “Three take you, creature! You’re terrifying.”

  //IF IT HELPS, I’M NOT HUNGRY.// Myryntir chuffed. //RIGHT NOW, ANYWAY.//

  “That helps surprisingly little.” Amir gripped his sword belt with both hands. “The High Justiciar is on a mission to the west. She has asked if you’ll join her.”

  //NO.//

  “Right you are then.” Amir did a double-take. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  //THERE IS NO TIME.// The dragon knelt. //HER SQUALLING INFANT IS IN TROUBLE.//

  Amir had never thought of Evanne as either an infant or someone who squalled, but a dragon’s perspective was different. “The High Justiciar is the best person to⁠—”

  //YOUR BOSS ISN’T HERE. HER CHILD IS IN PERIL. YOU HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.//

  Amir looked back at Faust and Larochette. They stood at the head of a gaggle comprised of merchants and ponies. None of them had moved so much as a metre from the camp. He swivelled back to the dragon. “I’m confused. You know Evanne is in trouble, but you were powerless to do anything about it?”

  //THE TALE IS LONGER THAN YOU MIGHT THINK. I WILL TELL YOU AS WE FLY.//

  “You what now?” Amir looked at the dragon’s back. “You want me to ride on you?”

  //WANT? NO. BUT YOU HAVE PUNY LEGS AND WILL TAKE DAYS TO REACH HER LOCATION.// Myryntir gave a great, dragony sigh. //YOUR ARMS SEEM FIT ENOUGH THOUGH. YOU WILL NEED TO HOLD ON TIGHT.//

  “Can I get⁠—”

  //NO.//

  “What about⁠—”

  //NOT THAT EITHER.// The dragon extended its foreleg as a mounting station. //COME, MAN, AND LET ME TELL YOU OF THE COURAGE OF CATS.//

  Chapter Eleven

  Pakhet chewed thoughtfully on a human’s leg. It was a little gristly, which was to be expected of someone in such fighting fit condition.

  The deck of Dancing in the Storm was a ruin. Or more of a ruin. It hadn’t been in great shape before the dragon arrived yesterday, and dragons made a statement. She crunched, enjoyed the meaty taste of marrow, and eyed the humans standing before her. “Do any of you have ketchup?”

  They seemed uncertain, which was to be expected. They hadn’t seen much of her. The man who looked like he knew his way around a forge stepped forward. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  Pakhet crunched, then picked a fragment of bone from her mouth with a razor claw. “Why do you think I care?”

  “You … saved us.”

  “Oh. That.” She remembered it well. Saved them? An interesting perspective. This is what happened.

  The deck of Dancing in the Storm was warm. The decking’s black metal caught the sun’s rays well. It didn’t smell too bad after its eight-hundred-year internment under a lake, and the fresh air was doing further great things.

  Pakhet flopped where mid-morning sun created a small nook of heat between the railing and a small structure humans probably thought was important a long time ago. She was invisible, because the humans became terrified when she yawned, and laying in the sun led to a lot of yawning.