Otherbound (28 page)

“At least we have enough water to put out a fire, right?” a passenger bellowed.

Nervous laughter broke off when something slammed into the aft wall. People jumped back as though waiting for the wall to burst.

“It's from inside the cargo cabin,” the crew member said, an Alinean accent weaved into his words. “Nothing to be scared of.”

Cilla crept closer to Amara. They kept cautious eyes on the wall and the passengers.

“Can we make it to shore?” an older woman asked. “Or will we wait it out?”

“That's—um—that's up to the captain.”

Amara's eyes were getting used to the dark, allowing her to see the way the boy shot constant, nervous glances at the companionway.

“This is ridiculous!” a different woman said. She had to shout to be heard over the stomping of heavy boots on the deck above, endless sheets of rain, and cracks of thunder so loud Amara jumped every time. “First we have to wait all night and morning, and now this? I should've been in Bedam yesterday afternoon.”

“The weather isn't Captain Olym's fault, ma'am.” The crew member laughed thinly.

“You know whose fault it is? Mages!” the first, older woman sniped. Her voice turned soft. “Oh, but I'm sure
you
agree with me, dear. You Alineans are so sensible.”

“Politics?” a new voice said. Male, high-pitched. “Let's not.”

The older woman sniffed. “It's basic common sense, isn't it? The Alinean Islands are in the best shape they've ever been, and look at us!”

“And you know that because you've been there, yeah?” the high-pitched guy said.

“
I
have,” the crew member said. Thunder rumbled, low and dangerous, and he steadied himself before continuing. “I was raised there.”

“Really?” the older woman said. “I didn't think any Alineans were coming here anymore.”

Cilla followed the conversation intently and kept so still, it was as though she thought any movement might disturb the ship. Amara reached out to take her fingers.

Cilla started. She looked at their linked hands. A slow smile tugged at her lips.

For a frozen moment between thunderclaps, Amara wished they could just have this. Hands and smiles and kisses, and never thinking beyond.

Without the lamps, the temperature dropped. The wind howled its way inside. The heat in Amara's hand felt good.

The crew member said, “And you're right: the Islands are in fantastic shape.”

“How about we discuss something else?” the politics-averse voice from before said. “Let's talk nausea. I suspect that will be relevant very soon.”

Laughter. The ship took a sharp swing sideways. Every-one's hands shot out for nearby table legs or lamp holders to steady themselves.

The older woman sniffed. “All the ministers' fault. And the rest of us suffer for it.”

“You've gotta be kidding!” the high-pitched guy said. “My mill is doing better than it has in years! I've received personal assistance from the ministers—”

“—when my father's brewery was sabotaged last spring, Della himself came to help—”

“—in the form of magic. Laziness that screws over everyone else!” The crew member was getting into it now.

“So what's the death rate in Alinean hospitals, huh?” The miller scoffed. “Why'd you even come here if your islands are so—”

A deafening slam. The wall creaked and whined. A second slam—wood cracked—and something slid across the floor. The passengers collectively held their breath.

A crate slammed through from the cargo area on the other side of the wall. Cracked panels kept it in their grip, but the damage was done. A set of cabinets dangled from the aft wall by a single corner, unhinged from the blow. Every wave knocking into the ship sent the cabinets swinging left and right. The crate lurched its way into the cabin a bit at a time, loosening the surrounding wood.

Amara jumped to her feet, Cilla's hand still in hers. They ran for the other side of the cabin. Amara pulled Cilla closer. She needed to shield her. This ship, these people, the storm, and the wall—Cilla should never be in a place this dangerous. Never.

Cilla's hand slipped from hers.

Amara spun. The momentum threatened to knock her over, but one leg shot out, steadying herself just in time.

One cabinet flew past, finally knocked free, and smashed against the opposite wall. Amara shouted Cilla's name out loud. The name never worked coming from her mouth, just a mix of useless vowels.

“I'm fine!” Cilla called, and Amara spotted her ducked behind a table. Shards of the cabinet slid across the floor.

“Hurt?” Amara landed in a crouch beside her. At least there was enough light to see her hands.

“No! No, I dove out of the way. I'm fine.”

Amara reached to pat her down, check for scrapes Cilla might not notice in the heat of the moment.

“Did you just … ?” someone said. Firm steps pounded the floor. Amara turned just in time to see the miller's face. A second later, callused fingers pulled her hair from her scarf. She scooted back. Too late. If he could see her signs, he could see her tattoo, and all she could do was—nothing.

“Amara!” Cilla shouted.

“Don't,” Amara said. Too many people in this crowd were loyal to the ministers for Cilla to reveal herself again. Even those who weren't might still want to reap a reward for bringing the princess in. Amara's signs became more urgent. “I know you. Don't!”

“She's a palace servant,” the miller said, astonished.

Amara could take her knife from her boot. Olym had given her a new one after she'd tossed out her own. With so many passengers, she might not be able to fight her way out, but she could try. She could slash the miller, make her way up those stairs, dive into the water, and … She couldn't tell where she'd end up. She couldn't abandon Cilla to the storm, either.

Amara let the miller drag her to where the other passengers were huddled. Amara's eyes stayed on Cilla. Her mouth formed the word her captured hands no longer could:
Don't don't don't.

“Look at the tattoo,” someone said. “That's Drudo palace.”

“Ruudde, huh? I hear he's generous with rewards.”

“How much would she be worth? What about the girl she's with? Check
her
neck.”

“You're disgusting. I want nothing to do with this.” The older woman backed away.

Cilla stood and shuffled along the swaying floor. The wall creaked with continued pressure from the crate.
Careful
, Amara thought.

“If you so much as touch me,” Cilla said, “I'll have my grandmother pay you a personal visit. I assure you, you don't want that. Let my friend go.”

She said it with so much conviction that even Amara almost believed this grandmother of hers existed, but the
miller didn't look impressed. “Fine. You're not a servant, but you're still helping one. I bet Ruudde would love to know that, no matter who your grandmother is.”

The crew member checked the companionway. “Let's not get worked up. She's a friend of the captain's.”

“This matter goes way beyond this ship. They're criminals.”

What do I do?
Cilla mouthed.

The miller's grip on Amara's arm tightened, leaving her with no way of answering.

om's promised talk didn't come until dinner the next day. Nolan had been focused on three things: staring down Pat, who still hadn't talked to him; scarfing his meal as quickly as possible; and surreptitiously shutting his eyes for too long. Nolan didn't trust the miller—or any of the other passengers—not to hurt Amara. Judging by the way Mom and Dad looked at him, though, he'd failed at the “surreptitious” part.

“Are you feeling better, honey?” Mom asked.

It'd been over a day since he took the extra dose. The headache and drowsiness had stuck, and his eyes still had trouble adjusting. “Much!” he said.

Dad put down his fork. “Tell me the truth. You said the pills were working. Are they?”

“You saw me this week.” Nolan smiled, but it was a nervous one. “Of course they work.”

“You told us the seizures were gone.”

“Well, some,” Nolan said, backpedaling. “I mean, it's gonna be hard to stop them all.”

“You walked out during that movie. Pat found you practically
unconscious yesterday”—Pat ducked her head so her bangs hid her face as Dad said that—“and you spent the rest of the day in the bathroom. You're not even shaving. We called Dr. Campbell. She wants to see you.”

“It's just side effects!”

“What your dad's saying is …” Mom took Nolan's hand, reminding him of Cilla and Amara belowdecks. He shouldn't be sitting here eating gross canned beans. He should be there, like Amara had asked. He checked back once every few blinks—

—the last of the wood paneling finally gave way. The crate slid across the floor. The group shouted and scattered, and the crew member yelled, “Through here!”

Was Cilla injured? Amara couldn't see her, and she couldn't walk well with her hands tied like this, but surely Cilla would shout. Surely she'd let Amara know—

“—that,” Mom said. “That, right there, is what we mean.”

Nolan blinked rapidly. “What? I'm sorry, I … I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Right this second?” Dad said.

“Yes!” Nolan stumbled upright and turned—

—Amara caught a glimpse of Cilla being herded into a cabin, patting herself down—

“—it's all right.” Mom took his hand a second time. “We know you want us not to worry.”

“The pills are working.” Nolan shook his head as if that would make the conversation go away. The way his parents
alternated set his hairs on end. Had they rehearsed this intervention? Were they planning to cut off his pills? They couldn't—if he lost the pills—

“This isn't new, Nole,” Dad said, finally switching to English. “You always pretend you're doing better than you really are. You skipped school yesterday without telling us.”

“I went today.”

“Because I drove you. And you left before lunch!”

Mom added, “Mrs. Hannigan said you spent half her class in the bathroom and the other half zoning out. You're hardly sleeping. If the pills work, we'll do anything to make sure you can keep them. You know that. But you shouldn't lie to us about how well you're doing. You're worse than before you started this medication.”

“If you're not improving, we're taking you off it.” Dad shook his head. “Even with my insurance, we can't afford it.”

They weren't cutting him off. Not yet.

“They work,” Nolan said. He swallowed. “I promise. They work. I'll do better.”

aptain Olym did nothing to help Amara. After the storm, an apology flashed in her eyes, and that was that; if anything, she had to be relieved it wasn't Cilla who'd gotten caught. “Oh, please,” she'd said to accusations of Cilla helping out Amara, “she's the daughter of a friend of mine, and she's under my protection. She's just a child. Are you really going to put her in front of a minister?”