Chapter 14
It’s not until the next afternoon that I have a chance to speak to Silas, when August heads to the stateroom to review navigational charts with Mance and I claim a headache.
August kisses me goodbye, even though he’s just going belowdecks, and I wait until he’s disappeared down the staircase before heading to where Silas is pacing the forecastle.
He looks up as I approach, and again my breath evaporates at the cold anger on Silas’s face.
It makes sense he’d be angry, but why does it feel like it’s directed at me?
“The thing in the hold,” I say after checking no one else is close enough to hear. “What did you—”
His mouth twists and I wish I could bite my tongue.
I only meant to broach the topic in a manner that wouldn’t attract undue attention—not to call the finfolk prisoner a thing—but I can hear how it sounded.
Being around Silas, talking to him like this, is disorienting.
Words spill out of me unconsidered, or won’t come out at all.
Maybe it’s because I hated him so fiercely for so long.
Now—I understand him a little better after meeting his crew and hearing about the finfolk’s message of war.
I think he believes himself to be doing the right thing for the Cursed Crew and for Kirkrell.
But I am not convinced that he has my best interests at heart, not with the way he’s looking at me.
“The thing in the hold,” he echoes my words in a hiss. “Did you know about it?”
“No!” Shock reverberates through me. “I’d never—”
But he’s already striding away. I start to go after him, but Ezra materializes from belowdecks and takes my arm, gently stopping me. From the sympathetic expression on his face, he’s heard our exchange.
“Sorry about him,” he mutters.
“I didn’t know,” I say defensively, anger twisting through me that Silas could think such a thing. “Really, I—”
“I believe you. I saw you almost fall on your ass when you heard the knock.” Ezra considers me. “Shall I tell Silas as much?”
“I guess so.” Though the thought makes my cheeks heat, I’d rather Silas think I’m a coward than a monster. “Thanks for that.”
The indignance seeps out of me slowly. Taking a breath, I turn around and lean against the railing, looking out over the deck so I can see if anyone’s in earshot, and Ezra does the same.
“Did you learn anything yesterday after I left?” I ask, pointing with my chin at Silas’s retreating form. “Did he … talk to the prisoner?”
Ezra nods, dark eyes following Silas as he darts up into the rigging. “Yes. The finman’s name is Io. He was captured on another voyage some time ago, hard to say how long. Been down there since before we left Kirkrell.”
Io. I try out the strange name silently. It hadn’t occurred to me that finfolk had names. At least the ones out on the sea, the ones without human blood. But of course they do.
“Mance is feeding him,” Ezra goes on quietly. “Checking in on him.”
It’s awful to admit even to myself, but I feel relieved not to hear August’s name. Though that doesn’t mean he’s ignorant of this. “To what end? Does the … the prisoner know what Mance wants?”
Ezra’s mouth twists in a grimace. “From what he would say, from what Silas could understand—somehow his weather magic is being siphoned. To keep up the wind and keep storms away.”
My breath catches as I think back on our sailing so far. We’ve had fine weather, nearly a week of sun, of blue skies and calm seas and wind in the exact direction and speed needed for ideal sailing conditions.
Ezra shudders. “It felt wrong to leave him there, but we heard Mance coming down and…”
Across the deck Silas climbs the ropes to the crow’s nest, too fast surely to be safe. His shadow shrinks away at our feet.
“What should we do?” I whisper.
Ezra leans back against the railing, appearing casual, but I can sense the tension in him. “I’m not sure there’s anything to be done,” he says quietly. “We must get to Drekja.”
“To heal everyone’s curses.”
Ezra hesitates a beat too long, his eyes darting to my gloves, before replying, “Right.”
And I realize—none of their curses are life-threatening. The most urgent reason to get to Drekja is me.
Before I can feel too guilty about this, Ezra goes on. “If we interfere with whatever scheme Mance is running here, he could force us to leave the ship or worse.”
His voice is brisk, practical, but my mind spins at what or worse could mean.
Prior to this voyage, I thought Mance crude and grasping, more enamored with the hunt than was tasteful—but not dangerous.
And even if I’d known what he was capable of, back in Kirkrell, maybe I’d have thought it no sin to wrest every possible advantage in our struggle against the finfolk, even if the methods seemed brutal.
“What do you think?” Ezra adds, eyeing my face with a note of surprise. “Do you want to do something about it?”
I shake my head, stomach churning. “I don’t know.”
Ezra’s right; I don’t know how it would be possible to free the prisoner without consequences.
And a selfish, scared part of me—the part that’s conscious of every new scale, that suspects my time before the heartbreak takes over is running out—is glad for the wind that fills our sails and lets us sweep quickly across the sea.
But everything about this feels deeply wrong, knowing that somewhere not so far below my feet a living creature is bound and bleeding in the dark.
Our fair skies hold. A few days later, there’s a stir among the crew when something is spotted on the horizon in the early afternoon.
I’m mending nets with Teuila, but when I hear the cry of “Whale spotted!” and the crew starts shouting, a queasy mix of anxiety and excitement quickens my heart.
Half the crew is gathered at the portside railing, the air thrumming with anticipation.
It’s early afternoon, a cloudy day. I spot August looking out with a spyglass and make my way over to him.
He hands me the spyglass, eyes flat with disappointment. “No hunt today.”
When I look out with the spyglass, there is no movement from the shape in the water, no mist of breath from a blowhole. It is a whale, a Livyatan, but it’s already dead, a mound of gray-black flesh bobbing in the waves like a small, bleak island.
The mood on deck changes, like a spring breeze given way to a damp wind.
Mutters from the crew. A dead thing at sea is a bad omen.
Even so, a whale is a whale, and we have the questionable fortune, on this voyage, to count a crew of salvagers among our sailors.
It would be foolish not to go see if anything could be salvaged from the corpse.
A few yards away down the deck, I hear Mance shout for one of the whaleboats to be lowered and the scavengers to strike out for the whale, and my stomach turns just as it has every time I’ve seen or heard the captain these last few days.
Ezra, Josephine, Zimri, and Teuila separate from the larger crew, coming forward as Silas himself checks over the boat with a grim set to his mouth.
The Heralder men have already gone back to their various activities, but there’s an uneasy twinge in my gut.
I assume Ezra was true to his word and vouched for me to Silas—that I was just as shocked as Ezra was to discover the finman prisoner in the hold.
But I haven’t spoken to Silas myself since then.
“I’m going to go with them,” I tell August, trying to sound more certain than I feel.
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “It won’t be pleasant.”
“When is whaling ever? Besides,” I add with a touch of bitterness, “don’t forget I’m on Silas’s crew now.” No thanks to you.
“Then I’d recommend you change your clothes.” His eyes trace down my body, my blue wool dress, in a way that would normally send a desirous shiver through me, but there’s no room right now for anything but nerves.
I change quickly in my cabin, trading my dress for a long-sleeved shirt and pants of rough-spun cotton, hands covered in thin leather gloves.
The small space is more crowded now; I have to step around Lydia’s trunk as well as my own, plus the sleeping mat and blanket I’ve rolled out on the floor.
That first night after he was discovered, I sent Kit to sleep in the bunkroom with the rest of the crew, but then my own guilt kept me from sleeping myself until I went and fetched them both from the bunkroom.
These last few nights, Kit and Lydia have slept in the bed in my cabin while I bunked down on the floor, the peace of mind making up for the physical discomfort.
The whaleboat is lowered when I come out, with most of the Whistler crew already waiting below. Silas stands at the railing, his eyes dark as he looks out at the dead whale. But as I make my way over, Kit materializes and zooms up to Silas. “Can I come too?”
I tense, expecting Silas to chastise him, but he just says seriously, “I need your help here.” As I walk up, Silas produces a spyglass from his oilcloth jacket and hands it to Kit. “Someone needs to keep eyes on us and make sure the Heralder doesn’t leave us behind. Can you do that?”
Kit beams and darts off, gone before I can call after him to stay away from the railings. Silas’s mouth quirks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes as he turns to me. “Lady Fairfax.”
“You’re patient with him,” I say. I mean to add a thank you, but it gets stuck in my throat.
It’s difficult to observe polite niceties around Silas.
With those strange eyes, sometimes it feels like he can see right through me, and it makes me want to hoard my words, as though I could protect my secrets that way.
“You sound surprised,” he says dryly, tugging at the rope ladder attached to the gunwale to check that it’s secure.
“Well, he’s a Fairfax too.” I keep my tone neutral, letting the rest be implicit. And you hate me for it.