Page 37 of The Queens and the Kings
“Yep.”
Einar joined them. “Where’s the ship from?” he asked, leaning over the gunwale.
“Stenberg,” Pedr replied. “Based on her colors.”
Henrik reared back. How could he see that far? Pedr sniffed into a headwind. He leaned back, tugged lines so hard he pulled his body weight, spoke a silent, incandescent language, and gradually brought the ship so close to the amalgamation on the sea that Henrik’s confusion turned to clarity.
A frigate from Stenberg, for certain. Not a soul stirred on the other ship as they closed the gap. A familiar figurehead screamed out of the painted prow. A snarling, bearded approximation of the ferocious Stenberg sea god, Norr. A god that Henrik couldn’t bring himself to believe in anymore.
“Did you know a frigate was gone?” Henrik asked Einar.
Einar shook his head. “No, but the navy doesn’t always communicate their assignments. It’s abandoned, too.”
Pedr drily muttered, “Well spotted.”
In that impossible way of Pedr’s ship, it shuddered to a dead stop on the calm sea. The entire ocean swirledaroundhim. Pedr stepped to the gunwale, assessing the wreck with distrustful malignancy.
“There’s been no word of an abandoned Stenberg frigate,” Henrik said. With growing surprise, he pointed to a painted number thirteen on the prow. “It’s ou—their—best frigate. If it were abandoned, we should have heard.”
“Would you, soldat? You who have been away from Stenberg for almost a month, and only returned for a few weeks after your reefer year?”
Pedr’s sarcastic challenge wasn’t unnoticed. It rocked Henrik. Of course he wouldn’t have heard. He wasn’t a soldat anymore. Not by traditional terms. Whatever happened in Stenberg wasn’t his business.
“It’s perfectly possible that this frigate left Stenberg shortly before or after you departed for the Unseen Island and made it here,” Pedr continued. “His Glory docks so many of your frigates on the eastern edge of Stenberg, you couldn’t keep track without it being your job.”
Eastern edge? Henrik almost asked. That made no sense. Most of the Stenberg population lived on the western side. Why would ships go to the east?
“Bones,” Einar whispered before Henrik could clarify. “Thirteen is utter bones. It’s like they just . . . left. Look! Even the sails are unbothered.”
“Narpurran pirates?” Henrik suggested.
Pedr shook his head. “Nah. They’re not supposed to be here. Too close to the mainland. They focus on the Chain Islands and attempt to usurp arcane.”
“Pirates have a schedule, do they?” Henrik retorted.
“Only sometimes. Seems more likely the occupants of this frigate died,” Pedr muttered. “This place is creepier than abandoned souls. We’re not going to stay long.” He glanced overhead. “My arcane is . . . off.”
The words rang in the air. It was the first formal acknowledgment of his arcane that stoic Pedr had given.
Henrik silently agreed.
Nothing shocking appeared out of place except the unnatural hush. Creaks issued with each sloppy wave. Thirteen rode low in the water, lightly shredded sails shifting in an uncertain wind. Dust brushed the top deck, swirling in occasional spindrift and driving toward them. Henrik smelled nothing unusual.
Perhaps a musky hint of . . . sealstone? Impossible. Sealstone was a native rock in Stenberg, and this ship was made of wood.
Pedr ran his tongue over his teeth, considering. The two ships almost bumped sides, but Pedr’s slipped away in time. Despite the dramatic move, the ship didn’t pitch the way Henrik expected.
“What’s on the deck?” Henrik asked. “It looks like pollen.”
Einar shook his head. “No idea. I want to jump onboard.” He spun to Pedr. “Can you get us close enough?”
“The frigate is tilting to this side, so you’ll slide into the water. I’ll bring us around to the other side. Looks like you can disembark onto there more easily. Hold fast when you land and don’t stay long.”
Pedr grabbed a rope. A half-hearted light spiraled from his palm and up, but ebbed halfway to the top. He released his grip, tilted his head, and tried again. Same lackluster response resulted.
He growled. “What is this?”
Einar flicked a nervous glance over his shoulder as Pedr grabbed a different rope. No affluence of color followed. A litany of curse words resulted as Pedr slammed a hand into the wheel.
