The Reader (33 page)

“Is Serakeen here, in Jahara?” she asked.

The porter pointed across the water, toward the mainland. Toward Corabel.

The Scourge of the East had left his territory around Liccaro for this? It might be their only chance to find him before the next fight in the Cage.

“Where in Corabel? We can get to Serakeen on our own if you tell us where he is.”

The porter said nothing. He gestured to the boat.

Archer tapped four fingers on his cheek. He wanted her to read the porter, like she'd done to the bartender in Epidram.

Taking a breath, Sefia searched for a mark that would allow her to focus her Vision—the scars around the porter's mouth.
She blinked. The currents of light washed over her, and she realized the porter
couldn't
speak. He had no choice—he had no tongue. It had been cut out of him years ago, a lifetime, it seemed. He'd even forgotten how to moan.

He'd been an impressor, once, from Liccaro. He'd gotten to the Cage, where he'd tried to bribe the Arbitrator. The Arbitrator had sent him through to Serakeen, who'd removed his tongue.

Now he was the nameless porter, who came when he was called and did only things he was asked to do: Ferry candidates from Jahara to Corabel. Ask no questions and give no answers.

Maybe he deserved it, for what he'd done as an impressor. Sefia didn't know.

She blinked again. “I'm sorry.”

But she was the only one among them who could speak, and she got no reply. She wouldn't get answers this way.

Stepping nimbly into the boat, she sat in the center with the pack between her knees. “He'll take us to Corabel's harbor,” she said. “There's a warehouse. He takes everyone there.”

If the porter was surprised, he made no sign.

Archer took a seat opposite her, where he could watch the porter, though there was nothing threatening about the man who hung up the lantern—just a silhouette against the starred sky. The porter loosed the sails.

As they left Jahara, Sefia cleaned and bandaged Archer's wounds with supplies from their packs. She mopped his side with a wet cloth, gently wiping away the blood.

When she was finished, she let her hands linger on the sides of his face. She wanted to trace the curves of his brows with
her thumbs, to brush her lips against the soft freckled corner of his eyelid. A flush of heat rose in her cheeks, and she sat back, busying herself with stowing the canteen and dirty rag.

“We're going to find the people who did this to you. To them. To all of us.” She didn't say what they would do after that. Learn what the book was for. Rescue Nin . . . And then . . .

She didn't know. The only thing she knew was that whatever she had set out to do a year ago, things had changed.
She
had changed. She wouldn't take another life. She'd find another way.

They rode in silence across the narrow Callidian Strait, with only the sounds of the water rocking against the boat to accompany them. The bruised sky above Jahara began to fade, replaced by the sight of Corabel at night.

Three spiral lighthouses took shape along the rocky coast, warning sailors away from the treacherous cliffs and quick riptides of Deliene's coastline. Great towers topped with rooms of glass and mirrors, they sent beams of light across the dark water, guiding ships into the smooth harbor of the capital on the hill.

Seven years had passed since she'd left Deliene, watching the scalloped snowcapped mountains disappear into the distance from the back of a tipsy old merchant ship. She'd been crying, her tears frigid on her cheeks, her nose red with cold, and Nin had stood behind her, wrapping the folds of the bear-skin cloak around the two of them.

“Will we ever go home, Aunt Nin?” she had asked.

The old woman squeezed her shoulders. “There's no going back, girl. Not for us.”

Sefia bit back a sob.

“Home's what you make it.” Nin shrugged. “Could be a ship. Could be what you carry around on your back day after day. Could be family. Or maybe just one person you love more than any other. That's home.”

The porter brought Sefia and Archer to a secluded pier in the western arc of the harbor, inside the long, tall arm of the cliff. Lanterns flickered near the center of the port, where the road led up the hill to the city, but here was all shadow and starlight.

Silently, he led them around the harbor to an enormous warehouse hewn into the stone cliffs.

“Thanks,” Sefia said. “We'll take it from here.”

But he just shook his head and opened the door. Sefia and Archer tensed, preparing to run, but nothing stirred inside. Except for the stacks of crates and giant spools of rope, it was empty, cavernous, echoing. Cautiously, they followed the porter inside.

At the far end, he ran his hands over the wall and a panel of stones slid aside. A hidden door with a pressure-sensitive key. Sefia was reminded of her old bedroom, from a long time ago.

She glanced up and down the warehouse. “Isn't there another way in?”

The porter reached into the opening, where he found a torch in the shadows and set fire to it, illuminating a tunnel of dry stone.

In the light, Sefia could see he had the kind of face you'd see on your local baker, on your tailor, on the man who swept the streets at dusk, on your father or your uncle.

He turned abruptly and pulled his black hood over his head. He stepped inside the tunnel, waiting for them.

Archer paced along the warehouse wall, searching for another entrance. Sefia ducked into the foreman's office, running her hands over the floor, feeling for seams.

Still the porter waited.

Finally Archer returned, palms up to show he'd found nothing.

“This can't be the only door,” she said to the porter. “Have you seen another entrance?”

He shook his head. This was the only way he entered and the only way he left. But she'd known that from her Vision. She'd just dared to hope.

“I guess we'll return in the morning. We can keep watch on this place, at least.”

Archer touched her elbow.

“It's too dangerous. We don't know what's down there.”

He shook his head. They knew exactly what was down there. The person they'd been searching for all these long weeks. Just beyond the threshold.

Sefia swallowed hard. This was what she'd come for. They'd go in only so far as they had to, until they found another way out. Then they'd turn back. Regroup. Plan.

With Archer behind her, she entered the tunnel.

Closing the door behind them, the porter led them down the narrow hallway, and the only sounds were of their own breathing, and their footsteps along the corridor, and the snapping of the fire.

At last, they arrived at an intersection. The tunnel forked on either side of them, disappearing into darkness, but before them was a metal door. It gleamed dully in the torchlight, dominated by a large iron circle inscribed with four lines, three curved and one straight:

It was pointed the wrong direction, but it was unmistakable. Sefia put her fingertips to the metal. “Serakeen?” she asked.

The porter glanced furtively to the left, and from the shadows there came a soft, “Just beyond the door.”

Sefia started. A guard stepped forward, his arms crossed, leaning casually against the wall as if he waited for Serakeen's victims every night. His gaze skimmed over her.

“Are you here to make sure we go in?” she asked.

“Just here to make sure you don't go nosing about.” Lazily, he brushed a lock of red hair from his eyes. “You're free to leave, though we were told you wouldn't.”

“We?” she echoed as Archer moved behind her.

A second guard.

She glared at the porter. “You could have warned us.”

The guards laughed as he opened his mouth, showing her the scarred flesh where his tongue had been.

She'd pitied him earlier. She didn't pity him now. “You should have found a way,” she snapped.

Bowing his head, he withdrew, the slick shine of his oilcloth coat disappearing down the tunnel until he was swallowed by the shadows.

Archer was watching her. His eyes seemed more gold than usual, almost burning.

“Well, they know we're here,” she said. She glanced at the redheaded guard, who smirked. “Are you ready?”

Archer nodded.

They turned to the door, to the symbol they had been hunting, and to what lay behind it.

Red Waters

B
efore the Crossbars, before Sefia and Archer, before the quest for the Trove of the King, Captain Reed and the
Current of Faith
were on a journey to the western edge of the world. They had passed the tear in the sky that had doomed Cat and her crew, but the wind had died soon after. The ship floundered. The sails drooped from the yards like stained drapes. Only Captain Reed kept them moving forward, seeking out sluggish currents in the still water, maintaining their course despite the blinding light and the blistering heat of the west.

The sun had eclipsed nearly half the sky, blasting it of all color. Reed wiped his dry brow. The heat pressed down on him, wringing him out, though there was nothing left in him to sweat.

He'd spent the whole night pacing the holds, touching each of the casks and crates one after another. Up and down the hatchways. Around the dwindling stores.
One, two, three, four . . .
Counting them over and
over, as if that would replenish the empty water kegs and meager slabs of salted meat.

But nothing had changed by morning. The crew received a scant meal of hardtack, a strip of dried meat, and a half-pint of water. Few of them even had the energy to complain. Their bodies were slowly consuming themselves, shriveling until they were gaunt and dry as raisins, skin stretched over sinew and bone.

Captain Reed leaned against the bowsprit, struggling to stand. He had been there for hours, tracing interconnected circles on the branches of the figurehead, but no matter what calculations he made, the result was the same: They had exactly enough provisions—
if
the rats didn't get them and the sailing was smooth—for a return journey. If they turned around today, they might survive.

The sun was sinking into the sea, lighting it up like a lamp. They were close. But how close? The light was a subtle, shifting thing. They might pass beyond the edge of the world today, or tomorrow, or the next week.

Or never.

Maybe the ocean went on and on forever, and there was nothing for him to find out there. Nothing but endless empty water.

Beside him, Meeks squinted into the distance, searching for signs of change in the seas. Shadows yawned in the pits of his eyes. They had all begun to look
alike—walking skeletons in gruesome masks like Captain Cat and the last sailor of the
Seven Bells
.

Reed rubbed his sore eyes. “Why'd you follow me out here, Meeks?”

The second mate grimaced. “You remember what Cat said, before she died?”

He remembered. Those six words came to him over and over again, circling back on him in the night. “‘Who's going to remember your crew,'” he echoed.

“She was right, wasn't she? All these things we're doin', all the adventures we been on, eventually, folks are gonna forget that we did 'em. Not you. You're the captain. But the crew? Sooner or later, they'll forget to mention our names. They'll forget we were even here.”

“Then why—”

“Because
you
won't.” Meeks grinned up at him, splitting his cracked lips. “I saw you go into that fire on the floating island. I seen you give up rations so the crew could have more. Some folks, knowin' when they're gonna kick it, might play it safe. But not you. Knowin' you ain't gonna die makes you fight harder to protect those who might.”

Reed put his hand on the second mate's narrow shoulder and squeezed. Maybe he could finally do what Captain Cat had wanted: save the crew—all of them, not just their bodies but their minds too, so that when they left this place, it wouldn't be branded in their minds the way Captain Cat's experiences had been branded
in hers. They could be free of this wretched unending brightness, and they'd never have to think of it again.

The words stirred deep in the trenches of his heart:
We're goin' home
.
They rose, rolling up through him like smoke, into his throat, poised there behind the gate of his teeth.
We're goin' home.

Words that meant defeat. And failure.

And survival.

“Cap . . .” Meeks put his fists to his eyes and bared his teeth.

Reed peered into the second mate's puckered face and cursed. “Doc warned us about this.”

Distortions. Blind spots. Pain.

Meeks tried to blink, but he couldn't open his eyes anymore. “I'm sorry, Cap. I wanted to help.”

“Let's get you to the doc.” Captain Reed took the second mate by the hand and began leading him toward the main hatch.

What else would be taken from them, before the end? If there was an end? The bright spread of water stretched on and on around them, finally merging with the white radiance of the sun.

A muffled explosion, like powder, struck the bowsprit. Reed turned. Pieces of the sun were tearing off and floating toward them, trailing long ribbons of light. Wherever they struck, they hissed and burst like clouds of dust, sprinkling the hull with specks of light.

The
Current
was passing into the setting sun.

Shouts of alarm rose from the crew.

“It ain't right!” someone cried. “We ain't goin' no farther!”

Meeks jerked his head in the direction of the voice. His hands fumbled for his guns. “Camey, that son of a—”

A puff of light dusted Reed's neck and cheek. It felt like nothing—even lighter and less substantial than snowflakes. He brushed the collar of his shirt, but the light was already gone.

They'd made it. He would have crowed, if he weren't so hoarse.

He nudged Meeks behind the foremast. “Stay here till I give word. I ain't losin' you.”

“But Cap—”

“Do it.” Without waiting for a response, he staggered across the deck, drawing the Lady of Mercy. He was so weak the floorboards seemed to roll beneath him.

“Anyone seen Aly?” Cooky called for the steward as he poked his head out of the galley. Reed stumbled past him and halted at the corner of the main hatchway.

Beyond the mainmast, Jaunty clung to the helm, where Greta held him by the neck with one thick hand. The other pressed the muzzle of a revolver to his head. Camey stood beside them, hawk-nosed and bright-eyed, guns drawn on the chief mate, who stood in the doorway to the great cabin.

“That's far enough, Captain.” Camey jerked his head at the Lady of Mercy. “Toss that aside.”

For emphasis, Greta jabbed Jaunty with her revolver. The helmsman coughed and tried to spit sideways, but nothing came out.

Greta's hair had begun to fall out, revealing flaky patches of skin on her scalp. Neither she nor Camey had voiced a complaint, not even in the form of a joke, in weeks. Reed should have known. But he'd been so focused on getting to the edge of the world that he hadn't noticed. Or hadn't cared.

Now she had Jaunty, though she was a little unsteady on her feet, a little unsure of her own limbs. Reed could draw faster than Camey, might even be able to kill him before he got a shot off. But not if it cost him his crew.

Reed let the Lady of Mercy drop. The silver revolver fell to the deck as Horse and Doc climbed out of the main hatch.

The larboard watch stumbled from the shelter of the forecastle, blinking at the brightness.

Jules started forward. “Camey, what—”

He shot at her feet. Splinters flew from the deck. The chief mate winced.

“Now,” Camey said, “undo your gun belt and get rid of that too.”

The barrel of Camey's revolver stared Reed down. Remembering the boar from the floating island—shot
clean between the eyes—he obeyed, unbuckling his holsters and letting them drop—Executioner and all—beside the Lady of Mercy.

“Turn the ship around,” Greta barked.

The helmsman grunted, his hands flexing on the wheel, but he didn't turn.

Puffs of light struck the sails and drifted down to the deck. Hushed cries rose from the crew. The sun loomed larger and larger, closer and closer in front of the ship, as flurries of light broke over the masts and rigging.

“Camey, it ain't dangerous—” Reed began.

“You don't know that. You don't know what's out there. You put us in one bad situation after another on this cursed voyage, and it ain't right. We've had enough.”

“And if you'd pulled this stunt a minute sooner I might've agreed with you,” Reed said. “But not now. Can't you feel it?” The edge of the world, waiting just beyond the circle of the sun. His fingers tapped against each other. A story worth telling.

Camey shook his head. “I ain't goin' in there.”

Greta drew back the hammer of her revolver. “Be easier with your help, Jaunty, but we'll do it without you if we got to,” she said.

“No!” Horse lunged forward.

Camey shot him. The bullet burst through his meaty shoulder and out the other side. He hit the deck. Doc rushed to him.

There was a rustling among the rest of the crew. One by one, they held up their hands—arms raised, palms outward—and edged away from Reed. None of them, not even Jules or Doc or old Goro, looked at him.

A grin spread across Camey's hawk-nosed face. “Harison, get his guns.”

The fore of the ship passed into the sun, enveloped in clouds of light. Bright smoke covered the bowsprit. Reed cursed. Meeks was up at the bow.

The ship's boy looked from Camey to Reed and back again. He shook his head.

“C'mon, Harison,” Greta said, “you're one of us.” The light was so harsh her eyes were nearly closed shut. Reed watched her carefully. She didn't know where Harison was, where to direct her voice. She was as blind as Meeks, though she was trying to hide it. “You're from
home
,” she said.

“No,” Harison said, stumbling across the deck. “I am home.”

Her determination drained away as her sightless eyes roved aimlessly back and forth. She'd been so sure he'd help them. So sure. Reed almost felt sorry for her.

Light engulfed the flying jib, the forestaysail.

Camey's yellowed eyes bulged from his face as he bellowed, “Turn!”

Jaunty bared his teeth. “Keep squawkin'. It won't do you no good.”

The fore of the ship was covered in light now,
wafting over the deck and spilling over the rails. They were almost a third of the way through.

“Help me!” Camey cried to the others. “We're all gonna die if you don't!”

Jules and Theo moved forward, hands extended, not entirely sure of themselves.

Reed could feel the light licking at his shoulders, the back of his head. It drifted around the periphery of his vision. “Not today,” he murmured.

The light overtook him. It swirled and whispered around him, bursting into clouds of dust where it touched his skin. It was so bright he felt like he'd be blasted clean at its touch.

The others were shouting. Someone whimpered.

A gunshot shattered the air.

Someone hit the floor, groaning.

Reed ducked, peering into the light, but all he saw was that brightness.

Someone stumbled over him. Someone else was crying. There were the sounds of a fight: grunting, shuffling, cursing, the banging of elbows and knees on wood, the
smack
of flesh on flesh.

A gun fell to the deck.

He felt for his discarded revolvers. His belt. Something.

“Cap?” Harison's voice at his shoulder.

“Stay down,” Reed muttered.

The light cleared so abruptly that he felt like he'd
been plunged into a well. He fumbled for his weapons, but his hands groped at nothing. Everything was black. And cold. After the blazing heat of the other side of the sun, this cold was bone-deep. It crunched.

He found his belt and buckled it on. As his vision returned, he saw black sky and the white disc of the sun, which gave off little light and no heat. His breath frosted in the air.

Greta lay on the ground, clutching her chest and gulping fast, painful breaths. Blood seeped into her shirt, around her hands. Above her, Jaunty clung to the helm, his shirt spattered with blood.

Harison was on his knees beside the empty pigpen. Reed grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him to his feet. “Meeks is behind the foremast.” The cold snapped up his words.

The ship's boy nodded and scrambled away, nearly knocking into Cooky, who stumbled from the galley, calling for Aly.

The crew were on their hands and knees or clutching the rails, shivering in the sudden cold. Horse crouched protectively over Doc, who tried to stanch his wound.

The chief mate was wrestling with Camey, grunting, grappling, each trying to get a hold on the other. One of Camey's guns had been flung clear across the deck, but he gripped the other with white-knuckled determination. The mate had his wrist and banged his
hand over and over on the rail, trying to make him release it, but they both held on.

Camey tripped. He couldn't see. His arms spiraled wide.

But the chief mate was never blind on the
Current of Faith
.

He wrested the gun from Camey's grasp, turned it on him, and pulled the trigger.

Blood fountained onto the deck. Camey dropped.

The ship was silent as the stunned crew regained their sight. The sky was black as pitch, without even the pinpricks of stars in the darkness, and the faint illumination from the back side of the sun was dim and cold, more like mist than light.

In the sudden stillness, Aly climbed down from the foremast, her rifle swinging at her back. She stopped beside Greta's corpse. Her breath smoked.

From behind the galley, Harison appeared, leading Meeks by the hand. “What happened?” the second mate asked, his voice falling loudly in the silence. “Help me out, Harison.” The ship's boy leaned over to whisper in his ear.

Reed squinted at the crow's nest and walked to Aly's side. “I wondered where you'd got to.”

She shivered. “Couldn't let them take the
Current
, Cap.”