Water & Storm Country

Next is an oarsman, whose newfound sense ofhonor leads him to request to keep working while he’s ill. When Ifind him, he’s soaked with sweat and burning with fever, clingingto his oar. The other men have all gone above deck, afraid ofcatching it. When I order him to the quarantine cabin, he cries,and a bit of me rips apart.

Everyone has to work harder to fill the gaps,and my energy is temporarily focused on keeping the ship ru

Another sailor dies less than a week later.And still we sail on, ever onwards, waiting for the fleet tostop.

I spend a lot of time with Barney, who seemsunwilling to leave my side. We sit side by side, watching thesailors, considering how best to operate with the shortages inmanpower. “What if I operate an oar while Hobbs mans one of thesails?” I suggest.

“You might as well ask your father to rig upthe sails,” Barney says.

I bite my lip because he’s right. Hobbs wouldnever stoop to such a position, even if doing so could save hislife. And we haven’t reached that point yet anyway. “How aboutyou?” I say.

Barney’s eyes widen. “Me? Sir, I can assureyou, I’m not your man.”

“Can you walk?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Do you have hands?”

“Of course, but, sir—”

“Then you’re my man,” I say, smiling broadlyand knowing full well that Barney would faint under a day of hardsailor’s work.

“I’m not exactly…fit for the job,” hesays, rubbing his more-than-adequate belly.

I laugh heartily, stopping only when Irealize: it’s the first time I’ve laughed in several days.

The ship lists from side to side while Icontinue to ponder our dilemma. In the end, no matter how manyreplacement workers we throw at the sails and the oars, with ourholey sails we’re not going to be able to keep up with the otherships.

I have to fix them. Alone this time, itseems. The thought becomes a pit in my gut. A searin’ pit inmy searin’ gut, I think, almost laughing in spite ofmyself.

I miss the way she talks, I realize. And theway she laughs and moves and looks at me. At least when she’s notglaring daggers in my direction.

The ships rolls hard to the right andsomething thumps on the lower deck.

Someone screams.

I stand, seeing a brown body crumpled on thewood. No! I think, already ru

Brown-ski

Jade is one of the bilge rats standing in thecircle. There’s a burst of joy in my chest and I know it’s mean(and wrong), because there’s a young boy, maybe two yars my junior,shaking on the deck, wheezing, stricken with the Scurve. Dying.

“We need to get him to quarantine,” I say,and the bilge rats turn to look at me, opening a gap in theircircle. I feel Jade’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at her, can’tlook at her, not when there’s a boy dying between us.

I step forward and lift him carefully. He’sall bone and muscle, still shaking, his body in full rebellionagainst the disease, but clearly losing both the battle and thewar.

For a moment his eyes meet mine, and I thinkthere’s clarity in them, like maybe he knows who I am, but thenthey roll back and all I see are the whites.

I step out of the circle, but stop when Icome face to face with Hobbs.

“One of the rats got the Scurve?” he asks,although it’s pretty clear he’s not looking for an answer. Not theway his arms are crossed like an X across his chest.

I try to push past, but his arm flashes outand stops me. “Where are you going?”

“To quarantine.” Obviously, I want toadd.

“Throw him overboard,” he says.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

I did hear him, all three words, like nailspounded into the frame of a new ship being built. “I’m taking himto quarantine,” I say more firmly.

“Are you disobeying a direct order from asuperior officer?” Hobbs says, sounding almost hopeful.

I want to disobey him.

(I do, I swear.)

But I can’t. This boy is dying, and if Idon’t do as Hobbs says, I’ll be demoted and removed from theMayhem, and well, that can’t happen.

(Not when she’s still on board.)

Not when the ship needs me.

(Don’t they?)

I start to push the boy’s body into Hobbsarms, but he jumps back, as if touching any part of his skin willimmediately transfer the disease. “You do it,” he snarls.

I’m helpless as my mother slips from mygrasp.

I’m strong and evil and a murderer as I pushWebb over the side with a swift shove.

Twice it’s been my doing, and this will makethrice. For some reason the number seems ominous.

I stride past Hobbs to the railing, thesilence broken only by the click of my boots on the deck.

(Will she ever speak to me again?)

The boy’s body, although wracked withseizures and tortured with pain, is warm, his heart beating wildlyagainst my own as I clutch him to my breast, bent in my arms.Alive, so alive, and yet…hurting, dying.

“Rest,” I whisper to him, low enough thatHobbs won’t hear me. “Go with honor.”

He slips from my arms.

Thrice.

I march straight to my cabin, seeing only hiseyes, which flashed with recognition as he fell to the depthsbelow.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sadie

The war leader’stent is dark when I arrive. I start to speak but stop when theopening twitches, shudders, and then parts, revealing Gard’s heftyform.

“Walk with me, Rider,” he says.

I fall into step beside him as he leads us tothe center of camp, to the Big Fire, which crackles and snaps,devouring the tangle of stumps and branches placed by the firetenders. One of them stands nearby, watching the flames.

“Leave us,” Gard says.

She departs with a short, reverent bow,slipping away like a shadow.

“Have you tamed Passion?” Gard asks, whenhe’s sure we’re alone.

It’s a rather mundane question that hardlyrequires a midnight meeting. The fire pops.

“She will never be tame,” I say. “But yes,I’ve ridden her.” Surely Gard already knows this.

He smiles, and I’m surprised how warm itfeels coming from a man who could break me in two. Perhaps it’sjust the heat from the fire. “That sounds like something yourmother would say,” he says.

I should feel pride at the comparison, butall I get is a bulge of despair in my stomach.

I say nothing in response.

We stare at the fire together, watching as itsnaps a branch in half like a broken bone.

My mother’s face is in the flames, but Idon’t look away.

When I can’t look at her any longer, I turnto him and say, “You asked me here to talk about Passion?”

He continues to stare into the fire. “No,” hesays gruffly, “but I suppose you already know that.”

There’s silence as I look away. Thenwhat?

Another branch disappears in the red andorange.

“I want to talk to you about your father,” hesays, and I hold my breath, trying not to show the tremor of angerthat passes through me.

“What about him?” I ask, unable to hide thecrackle of fire in my tone.

He cocks his head to the side, as ifthinking, and then says, “Can I tell you a story?”

He’s the war leader, am I to say no? “Yes,” Isay, centering my gaze on a tuft of grass outside the stone ring,blackened by the heat from the fire.

“You were three years old,” he says, and Iclose my eyes.

No.

“Paw was four.”

Stop.

“Our battles had always taken place on thebeaches, well away from the camp. The Riders—your mother, me—weprotected the rest.”

But not on that night.

“The Soakers had a plan that night. Theywanted to cut us deeply, break our spirits. The landing party was adiversion, only a small part of their attack. By the time werealized it…”