The Reader (29 page)

T
ufts of Jaunty's straw-colored hair stuck out around his ears and under the brim of his hat like tussocks of dry grass. He scratched the side of his face, his fingernails scraping along the patchy stubble of his jaw. The planes of his lined, wind-hardened face were dark in the afternoon sun.

Captain Reed stood beside him, tall and lanky, with his hat shading his ocean-blue eyes from the sun. Deep creases curved around his generous mouth, showing signs of humor, though he was studying the sea, and not smiling now.

Swaying slightly at the gentle rocking of the ship, Archer watched them both. Jaunty never said much to him during the long, four-hour watches, and when the captain joined them, he didn't add much to the conversation either, but that was all right. Archer didn't mind silence.

He scanned the deck, as he did every few minutes, and picked out Sefia perched on the edge of the quarterdeck,
hunched over the book in her lap. Her long black hair was in a ponytail, but the wind kept whisking locks of it across her face, into her eyes. She drew it back with her fingers, but she was so engrossed in the reading that soon her hand dropped to the page and her hair escaped again, flying wildly in the wind. Archer smiled.

Jaunty turned the helm three spokes to the port side, going hand over hand on the wheel. A minute later the breeze grew stronger, filling the sails with the huge rippling sounds of stretching canvas. The ship began to speed faster and faster through the sea, pushed along by the new wind.

The old helmsman winked at Archer.

“Been a week since we met with the assassin and we still ain't found the ship she came from,” the captain said abruptly, his voice coarse as sandpaper. “That strike you as peculiar?”

Archer nodded. Something should have happened by now. If whoever sent the assassin had been desperate enough to send someone onto the
Current of Faith
, they shouldn't have given up so easily.

“Makes you wonder, don't it?” Captain Reed said. “You reckon you scared 'em off?”

Archer shrugged.

Jaunty laughed. Even his laughter was gruff, more like a bark than a laugh.

The captain chuckled. “Don't be modest, kid. Horse said you flung that knife straight through the steps into that woman's arm.”

Archer tapped the edge of his scar uncertainly, prodding the uneven, knotted skin.

“I heard Meeks stuck his foot in his mouth again, tellin' you about the Red War.”

He nodded.

Captain Reed sucked at his teeth. “Did you know about it, before he told you?”

Archer shook his head. His memory only really began the night Sefia had opened the crate. He remembered the light on the floor, the cool biting air, and her voice:
Come with me. Please, come with me.
But before that . . . flashes. Different flavors of pain. Shouting. Darkness. Whatever his life had been before she rescued him, it hadn't been worth remembering.

“D'you think it's about you?” the captain asked.

Archer rubbed his arm, counting the burns. Fifteen. And then he'd killed those men in the forest, two more on the dock. But he was afraid he'd killed more than that. He was too good at it. But he didn't like it. He did it only because he had to.

“I saw you fight on Black Boar Pier. You coulda killed 'em all.”

Jaunty grunted in agreement, but Archer shook his head. He wouldn't have been fast enough to save her, to stop Hatchet from killing her. He'd dropped the knife.

He stuck his hand into his pocket and grasped the piece of quartz Sefia had given him. With slow, deliberate strokes, he began running his thumb over the crystal's faces, once across each plane before rotating it and beginning again.

Captain Reed eyed him thoughtfully. “I built my whole life around the stories they tell about me. You know what I learned?”

Archer shook his head.

“What you do makes you who you are. If all you do is kill, then you're a killer.”

Archer nodded and pointed to his neck.

The captain snorted. “I seen you do more than that, kid. You saved Horse. You protected your girl. A killer woulda let her die on the docks so he could get at his enemies. But you didn't.”

Archer turned toward the quarterdeck, where Sefia was sitting. She'd barely moved—her hand was slightly off center on the page, and more of her hair had come loose from its ties, but she had that same familiar crease to her forehead, that same purse of her lips he'd come to know so well: pressed together lightly at the corners, making them a little rounder in the center. Slowly, he let the worry stone go, and felt it fall to the bottom of his pocket as he withdrew his hand.

“I ran away from home when I was sixteen,” the captain said. He frowned at the water, and the lines on his forehead and under his eyes became more pronounced. “I reckon you know that from the stories about me.”

Archer nodded. Jaunty adjusted his grip on the wheel, extending his index finger ever so slightly to feel the wind.

“I was just a stupid kid,” Captain Reed continued. “I didn't have anyone like Sefia to look out for me—and I got caught as soon as I left Deliene. That part ain't in the legends about me.” He sighed. “Don't know who it was that captured me, 'cause they didn't keep me very long, but they did things . . . mean, rotten things . . . and to this day I still can't figure out why. It makes it worse, somehow, not knowin'.” He scratched his chest, and his fingers made a soft rustling sound on his cotton shirt. “I don't know why they let me go either. But when they
did, I promised myself I'd die before giving up my freedom again. That's why I became an outlaw.”

Archer touched his fingers to his forehead, his way of asking a question.

The captain chuckled in a hard, barbed-wire way. “No king but the wind, no law but the water.”

Jaunty nodded.

When Archer frowned, Captain Reed took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “What I mean is, we're free. We choose what we want to do and who we want to be. Sometimes you gotta fight hard for it, but it's worth it, to choose for yourself.”

Jaunty curled his lip in a lopsided smile, exposing a few stained teeth. “But you don't gotta be an outlaw to do that,” he said.

Archer glanced at Captain Reed, who nodded and stuck his hat back on his head, ending their conversation. Both he and the helmsman returned to watching the water.

But Archer wasn't done. Ever since Sefia had broken him out of that crate, he'd been half-person, relearning simple tasks like feeding and clothing himself, and half-animal, killing without thought or remorse. He could feel that mad stinking creature from the crate starving for blood inside him, its sunken features lurking behind his own face, but maybe it didn't have to be like that. Maybe he could choose to be all-person: Archer, hunter, protector, artichoke-trimmer, gambler, ship's boy, quartz-holder, friend. This realization began to simmer inside him, slowly at first, but then faster and fiercer, until he was hot and brimming with it.

Maybe he could choose.

He found Sefia exactly where she'd been the last time he looked: bent over the book, her bare shoulders slender and dark with sun. Grinning, he bounded up to her in a few quick strides and sat down beside her.

As she looked up, the wind whipped a lock of hair into her face and she sputtered, pawing it down again. “Hi.”

At her smile, his heart quickened. He leaned over, daring to brush her forehead with his fingertips, half-afraid that she'd pull away. But she didn't, and he slid her hair back until it curled around her ear.

She smiled, with the barest suggestion of teeth. “Thanks.”

He could not remember wanting anything so badly as he wanted to kiss her now. To be
that
close to her, mouth to mouth, testing the shapes of her teeth and her lips. It was as if he'd never really wanted anything, and now this wanting blazed inside him like a lamp, the light reflecting out of him as bright as a beam from a lighthouse.

But he didn't dare.

He looped his arms over the rails, and made his sign for the book.

And Sefia began to read to him, her voice clear and strong in the wind, and that was enough. It didn't matter what the book or the legends said. What mattered was that he and Sefia were
there
, legs kicking idly off the edge of the quarterdeck, with the breeze and the bright afternoon sun pouring over them. What mattered was that they were together . . . and he was happy.

And they still had two more hours till their next watch.

J
ahara was a mostly neutral island governed by a council of representatives from each of the Five Kingdoms, though due to its proximity to the southern coast of Deliene, the Delienean councilor's vote held twice the weight of the others. Separated from the Northern Kingdom by the narrow Callidian Strait, its location in the Central Sea made it an ideal port for commerce, and all manner of folk, from criminals to outlaws to court ambassadors, were welcomed to the city, under the promise that no person in Jahara could be charged or killed for crimes committed elsewhere. Out of respect for the city's neutrality, even Oxscinian and Everican civilians kept to this one cardinal rule. Though lately, the number of stabbings, shootings, and acts of arson had climbed so high that the Red and Blue Navies were no longer permitted in Jahara.

The
Current of Faith
reached the city at dusk, when the sun was a globe of molten glass sinking into the black water. The
lamplighters were already at work, and the hills twinkled with hundreds of tiny quivering flames. Lined with lamps, the long piers jutted into the water, crossing one another in a twisted maze of ships and docks, so the whole city appeared out of the twilight like a glittering labyrinth, teeming with life.

As the gangway settled against the pier, some of the men cheered. They counted their coins and gathered their things, planning their night ashore.

Sefia looked down the dock, feeling very small. They were still a long way from land, separated from solid ground by an array of ships from every corner of Kelanna. Sloops and cutters, brigs and barques, flagged with silks of red and blue and green.

“I grew up in Deliene,” Sefia murmured. “Shinjai Province.” Deliene was separated into four provinces: Corabelli Land in the south; then Ken and Alissar divided by the long spine of Rider's Wall; then Shinjai, the mountainous region that supplied much of Deliene's lumber; and Gorman in the far north, a land of stony islands and icy waters.

Archer looked at her, startled.

She shrugged. “But it's not home anymore.”

As they made ready to disembark, the crew of the
Current
gathered to say good-bye. Sefia and Archer got hugs and handshakes and earnest invitations to find the
Current
again when their quest was over. Some of the crew members even gave them presents.

Cooky and Aly loaded them with enough provisions to fill their packs to the point of overflowing: smoked meats, dried fruit with supple flesh, and enough hardtack to last for weeks.
“Special recipe, that,” Cooky said. “Tastes better and lasts longer than any dinner roll you'll find on land.”

Meeks gave them money.

Jaunty nodded curtly at them, which was as good a farewell as anyone ever got from him.

“Where's Archer?” Horse shouldered in between Jules and Theo, who moved aside good-naturedly. “Come here, kid.”

Archer stepped forward uncertainly. Though he wasn't short by any standards, he was dwarfed by the big carpenter.

“This boy saved my life,” Horse announced. As he spoke, he extended his hands, palms up, and uncurled his fingers—Archer's sign for helping. “I owe him a blood debt that someday I gotta repay.” He clapped Archer on the back. “Till then, I got somethin' for you.”

Theo, Meeks, and Marmalade were grinning and nudging each other with their elbows, whispering. Together they passed forward a sword in a worn wooden scabbard and a gun. Horse took them solemnly and bowed his head for a moment before he said, “These belonged to Harison. I don't think he woulda minded me givin' them to you.”

Archer took the gun from its holster and cradled it in his hands. It was a revolver with a walnut grip, simple but true.

“His pa gave him that gun,” Meeks added.

Archer nodded and carefully holstered it again before pulling the sword from its sheath. Like the gun, it was a plain weapon, but it was sharp and well cared for. He let it shine for a few moments in the dock light before he slid it back into its scabbard. With some ceremony, he took the weapons and
made a short bow to Horse, who slapped him on the back again.

When they were through with most of the good-byes, the chief mate stepped forward and presented Sefia with a thin wooden wand, straight and smooth.

“We don't give these out lightly.”

The crew murmured in agreement.

She took the stick from him and ran her fingers along it. It smelled faintly of mint and medicine. “What is it?”

“A wand made from the same stand of trees as the
Current
herself. For calling us, if you need our help. No matter when, we'll come running.” He explained that the same magic that tied him to the ship also tied him to the wand, and if Sefia and Archer spoke to it, he would be able to hear them as clear as if they were standing beside him. “Don't use it if you're not in trouble, though. We're outlaws, not nannies.”

Sefia nodded and tucked the wand into her belt like a sword. “Thank you, sir.”

He patted her shoulder. “Good girl.”

She blinked back tears. Aside from Archer, the crew of the
Current
were the first friends she'd ever had, and the thought of not seeing them every day made her heart hurt in a way she hadn't expected. She looked from one to another, trying to find the words, but all she managed was a half-choked smile.

Archer bowed—a formal gesture, but the others nodded approvingly.

Then Captain Reed came striding down the deck in a long walking coat with his hat pulled low over his face. In one hand
he tossed a small leather packet up and down; in the other he carried the book.

As he drew near, Sefia felt the weight of his gaze on her. “Good luck on your treasure hunt, Cap,” she said. “I expect to hear stories about you and the Trove of the King any day now.”

His blue eyes glinted. “One day, kid, but there's like to be a spot of trouble 'fore this thing's done.”

“That's what'll make it a good story.”

He chuckled and returned her lock picks, which she stowed inside her vest, and then he handed her the book. She took it solemnly and clasped it to her chest.

“I'm sorry I couldn't find your place in the book again, sir,” she said.

He winked and patted his pocket, where he kept the scrap of canvas Sefia had given him a week before. “Got my name out of it, didn't I? You've given us all a gift, Sef. We won't forget it.”

The rest of the crew nodded. There was a fever in their eyes and in their hearts, and it burned so hot they could never rest for long. For them, life was only as good as their next adventure, and they chased after the wildest ones like whalers hunting giants across the mighty seas.

The wind coming off the sea ruffled their hair and tugged at their clothing. Captain Reed raised his head and sniffed the air. “Be careful. Whatever you think you'll find at this place Hatchet mentioned, if it's got anything to do with Serakeen, it ain't good.”

“We still have to go.”

“You're outlaws now, kid. You don't
have
to do anything.”

Sefia smiled grimly. “We have to find him. We have to know.”

Reed looked down at her, and beneath the brim of his hat his eyes were very blue and very sad. He started down the gangplank, his boots thudding against the boards. “Sometimes you find things and you wish you hadn't,” he said softly. “Sometimes you wish they'd stayed lost.”

• • •

O
nce Reed had disappeared down the dock with Jules and Marmalade, the ship's fastest sprinters, and the other crew members had dispersed on their various errands and nightly adventures, Sefia and Archer were left standing on the pier with Horse and Meeks, who had found them a guide: a small ferrety man in a ratty green coat.

“This here's Gerry,” the second mate said proudly. “No better guide in Jahara.”

Horse looked skeptical, but Gerry nodded sourly and tugged at one of his fraying sleeves.

“So, where we goin', Sef?” Meeks asked.

She glanced at Archer, thinking back to the night they'd met: Hatchet's men trekking through the jungle, the smell of the roast and the idle chatter of his crew. Half of them were dead now—Patar and Tambor in the clearing, Landin and One-Eye, whose name she had never learned, and Palo Kanta by the cabin, at least two more on the dock. But she and Archer were still here.

“The Cage,” she said. “I heard them talking about a place called the Cage.”

Gerry flicked a sideways glance at her. “Pay up front.”

Meeks wagged a finger at him. “Half now, half later.”

The guide grumped and started down the dock, leaving the others to follow after.

According to Meeks, all kinds of people set up shop in the Central Port, using a network of catwalks and rickety wooden planks to connect their barges and narrow boats. It was said you could walk a mile in any direction and still not set foot onshore. Wealthy merchants built wide walkways leading directly to their stores, while poor ones jostled for room wherever they could find it. The web of shops and ships and rotting bridges changed so often that after a month, the port would become an entirely new labyrinth.

“And that's why you always hire a guide!” Meeks declared as they passed the last of the tall ships at the end of the dock. “I ain't got to tell you the scrapes I been in 'cause I didn't get myself a guide.”

Ahead of them, Gerry snorted.

“The captain didn't hire a guide,” Sefia pointed out.

“Yeah, but he's Captain Reed, ain't he? He don't need one.”

“Neither did the rest of the crew.”

“All right, if you're bein' exact about it. But you get the point, don't you? It ain't safe here.”

The guide led them past the outer piers into the floating market. During the day, it was filled with colored tents and vendors of all sorts, but at night the barges were flat deserted spaces strewn with bits of trash and rotting fruit rinds. Oversize wharf rats skittered through the shadows.

As they traveled farther into the maze, the glass lamps
became scarcer, until only a stray torch or a narrow boat's dim lantern lit the rotting boardwalks. Archer and Horse were quiet and alert, searching for movement in the shadows. Overhead, the sky was a bruised yellowish-purple.

They passed run-down shacks and docks that ended in abrupt pools of dirty water, and beneath the tattered canopies skulked tired old women with no teeth and tawdry dresses, fat men who smoked and followed you with their eyes, hounds so thin you could count their ribs as they snarled at the ends of their chains.

“In these parts, folks are as likely to kill you as trade with you,” Meeks whispered. “So be careful.”

Archer nodded and pointed to his eyes. He had been watching.

“You remember what I said about scrapes, Sef?”

“I remember.”

Finally, they stopped on a catwalk lined with dilapidated taverns. Under a few baleful yellow lamps, a handful of patrons staggered down the street, laughing and listing sideways as they walked. Their guide gestured to a nearby building that appeared to be abandoned. The tavern had no windows, only greenish-gray walls encrusted with mold and salt. Over its door, a hanging birdcage made a plaintive squealing sound in the breeze.

“Ain't that funny.” Horse touched the wall with a rough hand and examined the grime on his fingers. “I been down this street plenty, but I ain't never noticed this place before.”

Meeks nodded sagely. “Such is the way of the Central Port.”

“Shut up, Meeks. You ain't seen it before neither.” He turned to Gerry, who flinched under his huge shadow. “You sure this is the waterin' hole we're lookin' for?”

Their guide nodded. “Ask around. The Cage is the only place Hatchet comes to drink.” He glanced up and down the street nervously, his narrow eyes flicking from side to side.

Horse knocked on the wall. “It don't even look like it's open.”

The little man shrugged and tugged at his threadbare collar. “You wanted the Cage. I showed you to the Cage.” He cleared his throat and rubbed his fingers together, staring at Meeks.

“Right, right.” The second mate palmed Gerry a silver loy, and the man slunk off down the alley, leaving them alone in front of the tavern.

“You don't hafta do this, Sef,” Horse said. “You can come with us.”

“It'll be a great story,” added Meeks.

She studied their faces. Horse's wide-set eyes and his constant smile, the dimples like brackets around his mouth. Meeks's broad nose and his one chipped tooth. And for a second she hesitated.

But then she looked up, and in the floor of the birdcage, like a spider in the center of a web, was the symbol she had been seeking.