Page 38 of The Queens and the Kings
No variant hues.
No dramatic arcane.
The other ship, so close to their port side they might collide, moaned. The particles drifted into the air, sweeping past them. On instinct, Henrik ducked the dancing particles. Something in the strange leaden pearl hues set his teeth on edge. The profound quietude continued.
Einar cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello the ship!” he called.
No one responded.
“I’m going over,” Einar said. “I’ll be fine. There might be something worth keeping, or selling. We need as many monies as we can scavenge.”
“His Glory wouldn’t abandon thirteen without a reason,” Henrik countered, “and something about that weird dust doesn’t feel right. I don’t think we should go over there.”
“Worth a look.”
“I agree about the dust,” Pedr muttered. “Strange.”
Einar shrugged. Pedr tossed a rope to him. “Fine. Your funeral. Tie the ships together when you land, and don’t die. I’ll give you ten minutes until we’re out of here. My arcane isn’t working, and I don’t like it. If you’re not back by then, I’m leaving.”
“You have your knife?” Henrik asked.
“You have yours?”
“Yes.”
“Are you coming?”
Irritated, Henrik snapped, “Of course I’m coming.”
Einar grinned. “See you over there.” To Pedr, he said, “Ten minutes,” and spun. He flung the rope overboard. It spanned theten steps that separated the two vessels and hit the deck with a thud. Before the two gaps widened again, Einar leaped.
Irritated, Henrik waited for him to secure the rope, the gap to wane, and followed.
Number thirteen groaned with a sensitivity that made Henrik’s stomach lurch. Hellsgate potion couldn’t fix this soul-deep sense of danger. The arcane must stabilize Pedr’s ship against the pitch and roll of the ocean, because thirteen practically hurled them in comparison.
Same sea, different ships.
A sense of eery abandonment lingered above the deck as they ventured around. Tiny whirlwinds swirled around his ankles, pirouetting like smoke. The unique and intense scent of hot sealstone increased.
“You smell that?” Einar asked.
“Yes.”
“Where is it?” Einar asked, whipping around. “There’s not a stone visible on this ship, but I’m definitely smelling sealstone.”
The unique signature of sealstone rocks remained a mystery as they wandered, silent, but close. No discarded weapons, no blood. A random shoe, scattered coins, and a fallen flag. Henrik edged a triangular Stenberg flag apart with his foot. It had been dropped, but not torn. No blood.
“I can’t find any sign of a fight,” Einar said.
“There appears to be nothing wrong with the ship, either.”
The rancid smell of death drew his nose toward the stern. The distinct smell mingled with . . . something metallic. Hepeered down an open hatch. Two lumps huddled at the bottom of the ladder wearing the Stenberg sailors’ uniform.
Dead.
“Shite,” he muttered.
He glanced back to Pedr’s ship. Britt stood next to her brother, hair tousled as if she’d just woken from her daily nap in his berth. Agnes stood at her side, both of them solemnly curious. Glints of concern appeared in Agnes’s wide eyes and clasped hands.
