Page 39 of The Queens and the Kings
Catching Henrik’s attention, Britt’s brow lifted, as if to ask,are you all right?
He nodded.
Her shoulders dropped with relief.
“Einar,” Henrik called. “Here.”
Einar joined his side. He stared at the foul-smelling bodies, bloated from time and sunshine and heat.
“A week, at least?” Einar asked.
“I think so.”
“There’s another hatch.” Einar gestured toward the end closer to the front. “Let’s check.”
Tenacious dust clung to their legs as they cut footsteps across the powder. Henrik’s temples pulsed, heavy and light at the same time. He blinked the strange sensation away.
“Five minutes,” Pedr called.
Einar waved a hand, yanked up a hatch, and paused. Henrik closed in behind him as Einar dropped below the deck, knife out. He swung in a circle, recoiling with his arm to his nose.
“More bodies down here. Dead on the ground, in the hall. I count at least ten.”
“Attack?”
“Not that I can see.”
“No blood?”
“No.”
Putrefaction and hot sealstone blasted Henrik’s face, unlocked from the entombed lower floors. The ship rocked from a deep wave trough as Einar advanced out of sight. On the top deck, a door creaked open a few steps away, revealing a desk and paperwork. Henrik used the tip of his knife to swing the door wider.
Parchments and envelopes littered the floor. One, stuck on a corner, clung to the desk and fluttered in a breeze from a partially-opened porthole. He plucked them carefully from the floorboards, skimming each. A shaft of light fell through the open hole, allowing him to observe a familiar handwriting.
His Glory.
Henrik skimmed the correspondences. Messages for the Captain, mostly. Two regarding sailor assignments, changing acquisitions. Nothing specific about the load, in particular. Three were old, dated months ago, with commands to find Captain Arvid at any cost.
He gathered all of them, shoved them together, and folded them in half. When he straightened, Einar ascended the ladder. The sun inched toward the horizon, casting a buttery glow on the abandoned vessel.
Henrik held up the bundle of messages. “From His Glory!” he called. “I think there’s information in them.”
Pedr lifted a hand, but nothing happened. His already irate scowl deepened. He disappeared for ten seconds, popped back into view, and hurled a lidded bucket onto the frigate. The rope sailed with it, extending between the ships.
“The arcane isn’t working,” Pedr shouted. “Grab the rope and get back here now. We’re leaving. Something is wrong with that ship. I don’t want anything to do with it.”
Einar stared at the open hatch near the stern. “I don’t know how His Glory is responsible for this, and all the sailors dead below, but he must be. The bastid,” he added.
Henrik ignored the emotional exclamation. Einar had always been labile and restless, but since their successful departure from the soldats, his wild tongue had loosened. Dramatically. Einar no longer relied on facts, which was a dangerous game.
“We don’t know what caused it yet,” Henrik said, “but we’ll find out. I agree with Pedr. Something is wrong.”
“Oy!” Pedr raced across his deck to shout at them, eyes flashing. “Watch it!”
Henrik paused, Pedr’s warning ringing in his ears. His feet began to tremble. A juddering motion jolted his ankles, hips, torso.
Einar held out his arms to steady himself. “What is that?” he snapped.
