12. The Captain’s Dinner #2
People drink, and a low level of chatter starts up in the room as Dezeeves resumes his seat and downs his drink in seconds, like it’s just disappeared down a chasm.
Placing the empty glass on the table, he beams a wide smile, then starts up what seems like an overly friendly conversation with Ephraine.
“Drink your drink,” Drake’s voice whispers in my ear. He’s spoken in Hevallan. And maybe that is the language we should use here. Not to draw any suspicion to what we might be saying.
“What if it’s poisoned?” I ask, flatly.
“It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
His face is straight. “I was taught to know.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why? Did Banko have many assassins?”
The most altercation you’d get in a Banko village is if you crossed a fishwife.
I know it, and he knows it.
But to my aggravation, he makes no attempt to confirm or deny my question – or rather, my hidden accusation. All he does is take a long sip of his drink.
“See?” he says, swilling the glass before placing it back on the table. “Not poison.”
I’m not convinced.
“The effects could be slow.”
He leans right into my shoulder again.
“Ara. It is one of the tests.”
I look around and realise, in that moment, that he could be right. A young woman who must be Rhavnan directly opposite me is staring right at me… and the still-full glass in my hand.
Swiftly, I bring it to my face. It smells strong.
I gulp a mouthful of it.
It is strong. Stings the back of my throat.
But I know I’ve made the right choice. The woman’s posture relaxes. She’s watching me differently now, her elbows perched on the table.
I have to look away from her. Her stare is too disconcerting.
And then I notice that the person sitting beside her is Rike.
I say his name fairly loudly over the table.
He must have turned deaf since this morning, because he doesn’t react. At all.
Inside, I seethe.
Is he really going to keep this up until I Integrate?
At that moment, several people in red aprons enter the room from a side door, wheeling in a metal cart loaded with porcelain bowls.
Dezeeves turns to me.
“I hope you’ll find the first course to your liking,” he says – again, quite pleasantly. “A traditional Hevallan potato and onion soup. But it has been seasoned with some of the herbs we have been able to grow on the Sky Deck.”
I blink. “There’s a garden here?”
Bowls are being set down in front of us.
And Dezeeves is distracted. He’s looking straight ahead now.
With authority, he says, “Please. Serve the boy as well. Captain’s orders.”
I follow his line of sight. Cosmer, it seems, was about to be denied a bowl. The cook, very uncertainly, places it down in front of him.
“Would that be smart, Dezeeves?” Ephraine probes. “It could set a precedent.”
Dezeeves waves him off. “Tonight is a celebration, and Cosmer is a guest of honour.”
Cosmer doesn’t wait to be told twice. He tucks in with enthusiasm.
And I’m relieved. If the only good thing that happens at this meal is that he gets properly fed, I’ll be happy.
Once the cooks have moved on from our table, Dezeeves turns back to me.
“You asked about the garden. It’s in what was the old Crow’s Nest. Only a small one. I’ll admit it was one of my impulses, but it has taken rather well. Perhaps, one day, sky ships will be fully self-sufficient.” He sort of winks. “It would save me an inordinate amount of osimidite.”
I say, softly, “You are a man of innovation, Dezeeves.”
Dezeeves laughs throatily, exposing his bucked teeth.
“I thank you for thinking so.”
“Truly,” I insist. “Integrating prisoners of war into your crew. Creating gardens in the sky…”
Dezeeves catches the eye of one of the cooks and taps his empty tumbler. The cook rushes over to refill it with a cut glass decanter.
Attention back on me, Dezeeves says, “I find, the older I get, the more I believe that the only enemy to civilisation, is stagnation.”
The others around us have begun on their soup by bringing the bowls to their mouths and sipping from them. In Rhavna, this would be seen as vulgar.
But I have not been given a spoon.
Another test.
“A lovely line,” I say, taking my own bowl in my hands. “You have a knack for them.”
“They come quite easily, to educated minds.”
“Where were you educated, Dezeeves?” I ask. As nonchalantly as possible.
Dezeeves takes a slurp of his soup.
Lowering it, he says, with a quick lick of his lips, “I received an education of culture.”
“You travelled,” I guess, with a neat sip of my own bowl. “Learned languages.”
“Indeed.”
“Was there a country you liked in particular?”
The humour in his face sloughs off slowly, like shed skin.
“You like my lines. Shall I give you the one again about the bread and the yeast?”
“I am just making conversation.”
“As am I.” Louder, looking past me, he says, “Drake.”
His tone draws the attention of those near us, including Rike and the young Rhavnan woman.
“Would you remind us, please, of the rank you held on The Dragoness?”
“First,” Drake replies.
This garners a few nods of respect.
“Impressive,” Ephraine says, pushing his blonde hair off his chiselled face. “You’d be younger than I was when I made it to first. You can tell us all of your insights from the ship’s bridge.”
It’s said in a calm tone. So why does it sound like a threat?
Maybe it does to Drake, too, because his reply is slow and solid. “I doubt I would have any insights that would interest you, Ephraine.”
“Really? Because I can think of at least one question I would love to have cleared up.” He leaves a pause, then continues, leering, “I’d love to know how it was that you even got out of the ship? When so many others didn’t.”
Drake remains calm, but his shoulders seem harder and squarer than usual. You could balance something on them.
“Well?” Ephraine prompts.
“I was helped,” he says simply.
“Helped. Why?”
“I do not know. I did not know them. They grabbed me, just as we were boarded. Led me to a larvae craft they had hidden. Then proceeded to push me out of it.”
“Interesting,” Dezeeves states. “I suppose panic can cause irrational behaviour.”
Ephraine bursts into laughter.
“He’s lying, Dezeeves! I’d heard Rhavnans were storytellers. Didn’t realise they were bullshitters.”
The effect is instant. It’s like a spark goes through Drake. I can feel it. See it. His hand, under the table, has balled into a fist.
Subtly, I reach for it. Grasp it.
But instantly, I cry out, jerking so abruptly my knee smacks into the bottom of the table, which shakes in protest. Cutlery rattles. Rum is swaying in tumblers.
I stare at Drake. His eyes have flown to me, and he’s stroking his knuckles in his lap.
What in the name of the Sisters was that?
It was as if when they touched, our hands connected somehow. It was a similar sensation to the shooting pain, the warmth, I’d felt when I’d held his hand before. Except…
This felt several times more powerful. My fingers are still stinging.
And this time, Drake definitely felt it too.
And so, it seems, has everyone else in the room. Faces have turned to us. Cosmer looks like he’s ready to throw himself out of his seat.
“Ara,” Dezeeves says. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I thought I saw an insect.”
“An insect? In a sky ship?” one of the officers howls.
“We did have that bedbug infestation once,” Ephraine grins.
It seems the whole room is laughing now. And – because I know there’s no other way to play this – I laugh too.
Silly me. What a dumb female I am.
I try to ignore Drake. I can’t imagine what he must be thinking now of me, and our new friendship.
Part of me was hoping the shockwaves I’d felt had just been in my head.
If they’re undeniably real – and something physical – then what are they? Why am I getting them? Why can Drake feel them now, too?
The bowls are cleared by the soldiers in aprons, and very soon the main course is brought out, protected by a large silver-plated cloche.
“For our main course,” Dezeeves says loudly, to the room, “We would like to welcome Ara and Drake to do the honours in presenting us with our meal.” He gestures to the cloche, eyes back on us. “Please. Open it up for us.”
My stomach does flips. Another test. Although this whole evening has felt like one.
I stand first, tucking a loose strand of my hair behind my ear.
But Drake remains seated. Slightly stooped.
Please, Drake, I silently urge him. Think about Integration.
The room is silent, save for the ticking of a standing clock, reminding us seconds are passing.
Is he really not going to stand up?
We were doing so well. He’s going to fail us at the last moment.
Will this fail Riss and Cosmer, too?
I think of Chapp, being thrust out of the airlock. Is that my fate, in just a few hours? Minutes?
But then it happens. Very slowly, Drake gets to his feet. He maintains my gaze while he does, but his face doesn’t soften.
Relief floods through me.
I offer him the weakest of smiles.
He doesn’t return it.
I turn and walk over to the cloche. Stand by it. I’m aware he’s following, his footsteps long and steady.
“Together,” I say, looking at him again, my fingers already hooked around the handle.
He doesn’t respond. Just comes up behind me, eyes downcast as he reaches for the handle himself. And this time, I’m prepared for the sparks, the briefest of heat and almost pain, when our hands briefly touch.
We remove the lid.
My first thought is that the roasted bird on the plate is a goose.
But it’s not the right shape.
And the white feathers, placed decoratively around the plate, are different. Larger, longer, sharper.
I drop the lid, which falls to the mosaic floor with a clang.
Swan. They’re serving us swan.
The sacred national animal of Rhavna.