Water & Storm Country

He nods. Then shakes his head. “I’m notsaying this right. Before the battle that you were fighting in, wasthe battle with the Icers. Their king had gone mad, was takingchildren and selling them to the Soakers. This much we knew. Itwas—”

“Our duty to stop them,” I interject quickly.“Did the Riders kill him?”

“I haven’t been able to confirm with Gardyet, but if my vision was correct, then yes, the Icer King isdead.” The way he says it leaves me wondering whether it was aRider that killed him. But that doesn’t matter. Not when my motheris dead.

“And in your vision you saw Mother die?” Isurprise even myself with how steady the words come out, like I’masking about the weather, or what’s for the evening meal. I wincewhen I realize I don’t feel sad anymore. Everything is hot.

Father closes his eyes, dips his chin, nods.“And you sent her anyway,” I say disgustedly.

His eyes open and his face contorts into anagonized crunch of skin and expression and fresh tears. But hedoesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t.

But even in my anger I know the truth: Hecouldn’t have stopped her if he wanted to. Because my mother islike me—she doesn’t fear pain or death. Not is—was.Not doesn’t—didn’t.

I move on, still hating him for his weakness.“The other battle?” I say.

He sniffs, wipes away the tears with the backof his hand. “My second vision was more muddled,” he says. “Ididn’t understand everything. There were many Soakers,hundreds—fighting the Riders.”

“And I was a Rider?” I ask. “Like a realone—with a horse?”

“Yes.”

“Then your vision must be of events furtherinto the future. There are still months before my training iscomplete.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I ca

I stare at him for a moment and then motionfor him to continue.

“There were others at the battle, too, somewith brown skin.”

“Heaters?”

He nods. “I believe so. And two with palewhite skin and beards. Young men from ice country.”

I rub my hands together, for onceappreciating one of my father’s visions. A chance to not only fightthe Soakers, but to avenge my mother’s death. Revenge must gleam inmy eyes, because my father says, “Bloodlust can destroy aperson.”

“So can weakness,” I say.

I’m surprised when his gaze holds mine,steady and tear-free. Normally a comment like that would send hiseyes to his hands.

A memory tumbles through my mind. “When youtold me of your vision before,” I say, “you said I would have achoice to make. What did you mean by that?”

He sighs heavily, as if a deep shot of hotair might be just the thing to change the future. “In my visionthere was a boy…no, a young man.”

“One of the Icers?” I ask hopefully.

“No. A Soaker, clad in officer’s blue.”

My thoughts immediately pull up images of theofficer boy atop the hill, his contemplative expression, my attemptto kill him—stopped by Remy. “What about this boy?” I ask.

“He was in the fight, but he seemed unsure ofhimself.”

“Weak and pathetic,” I say.

“No. Not like that. More like he was decidingwhether to fight, and who to fight.”

“And I’m there?”

He nods. “And you have to decide.”

“Decide what? Whether to kill a Soakerofficer? Like that’s even a decision.” Heat courses through myveins just thinking about seeing the Soaker boy. Why did Remy haveto stop me? If I had killed him then, before my father’s vision hadcome to pass, would that have changed the future? Would it havechanged his first vision, which ended in my mother’s death?

Remy’s face joins my father’s in my mind,surrounded by Icers and Soakers—the officer boy. My mother’sassassins.

“First Paw, and now Mother,” I say, choosingmy words like you choose a knife—the sharper and longer the better.The pain that flashes across my father’s face proves the strengthof my choices. A tear drips from one eye, then the other.

He extends his arms, beckoning. “Mourn withme,” he sputters.

There’s no kindness left in me, noforgiveness. My scoff is my response.

I push through the flap and into thestorm.

Chapter Seventeen

Huck

The man in Cain’scabin is Webb. The same Webb who I sent to the brig forinsubordination. Yellow-toothed and crooked-smiled and chewing athick wad of black tobacco that mixes with his spit and dribblesdown his chin, getting stuck in his brown stubble.

“What’s he doing here?” I ask, glancing atCain, who seems very tired all of a sudden.

Cain remains silent while Webb says, “I’m awitness, sir.” The last word is spoken with a mockery thatcontradicts the very essence of the word.

“A witness to what?” I ask, but then my eyeswiden when it dawns on me. Inadvertently, my eyes close. Hesaw.

Webb spits on the floor and Cain kicks himhard in the back of the legs. Rubbing himself, Webb says, “I mightasaw a certain brown rat chuck a filthy ol’ brush at the admiral’sson. How embarrassing.” He spits again and this time Cain doesn’tkick him, although I can tell he wants to.

“What do you want?” I ask.

He smiles wickedly, the corner of his lipupturned into a sneer. “Just my due,” he says. “A bigger cabin—likethis one.” He motions with a hand around Cain’s temporary livingspace. “Oh, and a small promotion. Lieutenant should do justfine.”

My jaw drops. Either request is impossible,would raise too many questions, would call into question my abilityto lead, to make wise choices. But if I don’t…

“You’re bluffing,” I say.

“Try me.” And I know I can’t try him.After I sent him to the brig, he’ll spill the beans without givingit another thought, maybe directly to my father. And then he’llkill the girl. The only thing keeping Webb from shouting the crimefrom the tops of the masts is the dream of promotion.

Cain says, “You’ve been kicked off of everyship you’ve been on, Webb. I’ve asked around about you. The rumorsaren’t good. They said you’ve killed people—bilge rats.”

“Bilge rats ain’t people,” Webb says,spitting again. I bite back a retort, wait for Cain to continue thequestioning.

“There’s talk of a little girl, too. Foundraped and murdered.” I stop breathing, for just a second. I knewWebb was bad, but has he really done all this?

Webb wipes a bit of black drool from hislips. “No one can prove anything,” he says.

“So you’re saying you’re not scared of theother men—the ones who think you did it?” Cain asks, staring atWebb.

“They’re just rumors,” Webb says with asneer.

“People talk about it like it’s the truth,”Cain says. “I think I have enough witnesses and testimony to endyou.” My heart gallops two beats forward. Will this reallywork?

But Webb doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t backdown, even leans forward a little. “You try and I’ll tell AdmiralJones all about what really happened to Lieutenant Huck here. I’llhave nothing to lose.”

I look at Cain and I don’t need to read histhoughts to know what he’s thinking. There’s only one choice, onedestiny for the murdering rapist standing before me. But I can’t,can I?

“I think we can work something out,” I say,faking a smile. “Let’s discuss the details above, on thequarterdeck. You should get used to the view from up thereanyway.”

Webb’s smile widens, the bottom half blackwith tobacco.

As we climb the steps, I rationalize thedecision I’ve already made. If I do nothing, Webb will run right toHobbs or my father, and the girl will die. She’s done nothing todeserve my help, but I can’t watch her die, not when I need to knowwhy she is the way she is, why she hates me so much. There’s moreto her story than a life in servitude.

We reach the quarterdeck, where night hasdescended on the Mayhem.

“Right this way, future Lieutenant,” I say,extending a hand toward the ship’s helm.