CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MATTHIEU HAD CURLED into his ragged blanket and fallen asleep soon after their evening meal. Madeleine was thinking about joining him—they all felt weak and tired now, worn out from the toxic mix of fear and inactivity. When she was sleeping, she could forget about the itching and the smell and the constant gnawing upset in her stomach.

Then they heard orders called out from the deck above, a flurry of hurried footsteps overhead, the crackle of flapping sail, and the ship suddenly slowed. Luc’s head pricked up like a hound on scent.

“They’re trimming the sails.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re reducing the amount of sail so the ship goes slower,” he explained. “Taking some right down, or maybe folding ‘em up smaller. It’s for rough weather, or...”

His eyes, scared now under his rough bangs, met hers. “Or for coming into harbor.”

Madeleine’s belly became a live thing with teeth and claws, icy and hot and liquid. The fetid air was too thick to breathe—her chest heaved with the effort of drawing it in, but even so she was choked and dizzy. All this time, the deepest part of her had not believed it would come to this—that she would actually arrive in this hostile land, be torn away from her brother, exist only to serve the whim of the highest bidder. Now the pretense crumpled, and the scrape of the oars being fitted into the oarlocks, the jerky rhythm of their strokes, underscored her terror. This was no dream. Her father had not come. Time had run out.

Then Luc’s arms were around her, strong despite the quaver in his own voice. “There, Maddy. There now.”

She wrapped her arms tight and clung on. But though the comfort of his lean warmth helped her breath come easier, the swirling thoughts would not still: She would never see her mama grow old, never see Sylvain grow to a man. Never see the sun rise over the Avine River or ride through the Chênier hills. Never have a boyfriend or husband of her own, but only masters who—

Madeleine raised her head and fixed Luc with blue eyes that blazed with equal parts fear and determination.

“Luc—kiss me.”

“What say?” Luc’s shock would have made her laugh in a happier time and place. Not now. She was fierce with urgency.

“I mean it. Just one time I want to kiss a boy because I choose to. Because I like him, not because he bought me. Please—”

She didn’t have to ask again. His lips were chapped—hers too—and they both stank. She didn’t care. They kissed each other for a long time, tenderly, sadly, and when they drew apart the scrabbly panic had receded. It was still there, but so was her own strength.

She took a deep breath and stepped back. “I better wake Matthieu.”

THE SHIP MADE berth in a flurry of commands and brisk activity. The children listened and waited, their tension ratcheting tighter minute by minute. They had hated this ship, but now they were terrified to leave it. When the men began pouring down the hatch-ways, they were sure they would be taken—but no one so much as glanced their way. The crew were busy at their bunks—rummaging through their kits, stuffing purses with coin, donning bright neck scarves or less filthy tunics—and then they were gone. Night and silence descended on the ship.

“Will they just leave us here?” asked Madeleine.

“Maybe just till morning,” suggested Luc. “The men—”

“The men have gone drinking.” Matthieu jumped in, relieved, Madeleine saw, to have some diversion for his mind. “Remember what Uncle Tristan told us, Maddy, that the harbor tavern keepers were happy when Tarzine ships arrived? They always eat and drink lots—”

Matthieu’s voice stopped abruptly and he turned away, his shoulders hunched as though fending off a blow. Madeleine understood. Matthieu adored his uncle, hung on his every word and exploit. With the mere mention of his name, Tristan had sprung as vividly into her mind as if he stood in the cramped cell beside them, and with him came all the other people she loved and longed for. Then they crumbled to dust and were gone.

It was hot below decks—they were on land again in high summer, and the deepening night was thick and muggy. It was late when Madeleine fell into uneasy half-sleep, later still when a commotion on deck jolted her awake, her heart tripping like a frightened bird’s. But it was not morning—the open hatchways were black still—and no one came for them. Now and then a group of men made their way to the berths by lamp or torchlight, rummaged with their things and climbed back up the hatches. The men were silent and their faces, when the flames caught them, were grim.

She shook the boys awake. “Something’s happening.”

Angry words sounded on deck, a proper tongue-lashing to hear it, and shouted commands, a flurry of footsteps, the scrape of oars in the oarlocks. The ship moved, almost imperceptibly at first and then in the jerky rhythm of hard rowing. Some time later, they heard the crinkle and flap of sails unfurling, and then felt the ship list as the night breeze tugged at the sails.

“We’re heading out,” Luc muttered. “I don’t get it.” He was a voice in the blackness, nothing more.

Madeleine’s mind was doing a complicated skittish dance, circling around the flare of hope that she was afraid to grab hold of.

But Matthieu did it for her. “He changed his mind, that Turga. What else could it be? He’s taking us back home for ransom. That’s why the crew’s mad—they thought they were getting a holiday, and now they’re back to work!” His hand groped for hers, caught it, squeezed hard. She squeezed back, unable to speak around the hard ball of tears that had grown in her throat. She wanted so badly for Matthieu to be right. But she knew too much now, and she didn’t believe it.

IT HAD NOT yet been fully dark when Turga’s first mate, Zhirak, had returned to the ship, his expression uneasy. “It’s bad, boss. Half of Baskir’s closed up—Grindor just ordered the plague flags hung out. It’s the Gray Veil, spreading fast if you believe the wenches at Puka’s. Of course, he’d be open for business if the place was on fire.”

Turga cursed, his mind already racing ahead.

“The auction?”

“Closed. You know it hits young ones the worst. They don’t even want ‘em in the holding pens. No one will buy a slave that might spread sickness through the house and be dead in a week.”

Children made up more than half of most auction offerings. Buyers considered them more trainable than adults, and better value in terms of potential years of service. But Zhirak was right— in this particular circumstance, youth was a liability.

“Bring the men back.” There was no time to lose. Turga had seen the Veil at work long ago, seen his small brother whistle and gasp to breathe around the evil coating that spread over the back of his throat and filled up his tiny airways. The lad had lived, but plenty in their village had not.

“Sir? They’re all over town by now.”

“Find them!” The command was roared. “Take the three who came back with you and the two above-deck guards and scour the town. Haul their arses back to the ship, and demon-fire take you if you fail.”

The startled men scrambled toward the catwalk.

They would sail to Rath Turga at first light and keep the children there until the epidemic died down and the markets reopened. And he would promise gold to his own patron god, the axe-wielder Kiar, if the Great Hewer would only ensure that no invisible unwanted guest came aboard with the returning crew.