Sorcha’s eyebrows shot up, but the corners of her mouth twitched. While the Order did not like its members to be prideful, Merrick could understand a little of the feeling he was sensing across the Bond. Seldom was the work of the Deacons actually discussed in polite society. “My husband and I were involved with that case. I didn’t realize that word of it had got out.”
“Miss Macthcoll is the daughter of the physician stationed at the outpost in Ulrich.”
Across the Bond he felt Sorcha’s interest wane. I’ll leave you to deal with the pretty face. “Well, let us hope we have smooth sailing all the way there.” Sorcha gestured to the front of the ship, where a tall man dressed in oilskins and sporting a massive red beard was supervising the securing of the hatch. “The captain seems to think that we may be lucky with the weather.”
Without so much as a farewell, she turned and went below, no doubt to see if their accommodation was as good as their horses’. Merrick bit back the urge to apologize for his partner’s rudeness. At all times, bonded Deacons were supposed to show solidarity. If Nynnia knew anything about the Order, she would be surprised if he showed any disloyalty.
“Seven days,” the young lady said, turning to look where the crew were casting off. “Even one day can be a long time in these oceans. I doubt if the captain is being anything other than reassuring to your partner. No one can tell what the weather will do in these currents.”
Then she excused herself most sweetly and went below to find her cabin.
Indeed, this was going to be a long trip. Merrick sighed and idly fingered his belt pocket where the Strop lay curled. He’d feared having to keep his thoughts reined in and away from Sorcha, but now with this new heady distraction he doubted if he would be able to. He imagined that this journey would be full of jabs and jokes of all kinds. Even though he expected Ulrich to be rather bleak, Merrick found he was looking forward to seeing it.
After two days of travel, Sorcha was ready to throw herself over the side and swim for it. Merrick and his cow eyes were only physical symptoms of what leaked across the Bond. It was deeply disturbing to feel his attraction to this girl as intimately as Sorcha felt it.
It would have been bad enough if she’d known him for years, but they had been partnered for only a week. She was standing on the deck on the third morning, smoking a cigar that she had hoped to keep at least until Ulrich. She had needed an excuse to get away from the general foolishness belowdecks. Merrick was too damn Sensitive.
Blowing out a plume of smoke, she watched the umber sun wallow out of the sea. The thought crossed her mind that she was either old and bitter, or old and jealous. Kolya’s courting of her had been a lot more measured and a lot less romantic. Partners for a year—it had seemed the logical thing—there had been little in the way of romance.
Certainly there was no injunction against marrying one’s partner, nor anyone else, but within the Order, marriages were not common. Life was often short and brutal for Deacons, and Sorcha was honestly surprised every day that neither she nor Kolya had been killed thus far. He had been a good friend and partner—but perhaps she’d been expecting their marriage to end more dramatically than it was—most likely in her own death.
Yet we’re both alive. She drew another warm, thick mouthful of smoke. And we both know it isn’t enough anymore.
This early in the morning, she knew she was prone to maudlin thoughts. She usually enjoyed traveling by water, since the geist danger was limited to only the occasional storm if they passed close to the land. Not today, however. Sorcha found she was as tense as a coiled spring and her hands were actually white-knuckled on the railing. Apparently not even a cigar could relax her.
“Bloody Bones,” she muttered to herself. A Deacon’s life was short enough, and now she couldn’t even enjoy her one vice. The silver hip flask in her cloak pocket downstairs was really only for emergencies.
A startled caw from above made her glance upward. Her brow furrowed. A collection of seabirds, gulls and cormorants circled above the ship. She had traveled the ocean many times, but could not recall having seen so many birds behaving in such a way. A shiver of apprehension ran up her spine. Sometimes the natural world had a strange reaction to the Otherside; animals of all kinds were very aware of fluctuations in the ether. Her jaw clenched as she let her Center flit out, but again there was nothing. In the good old days, she would have been confident that she would have at least been able to sense anything dangerous. These, however, were no longer the good old days.
She was just about to go below and rouse her sleeping partner when something on the horizon caught her eye. Captain Tarce was giving another of his crew an ear bashing and was clearly too busy to notice. She strode over to him and requisitioned his spyglass from his belt while he was distracted. Before he could argue, she was back at the starboard side peering into the swirling mass of red dawn that concealed what she couldn’t see with the naked eye. One glance through the scope, and she was yelling at the Captain. “Get my partner up here—now!”
Luckily, familiarity with Deacons had not bred contempt. Merrick was at her shoulder in mercifully quick time. Across the Bond, she could feel his sleepiness evaporating. She handed him the spyglass wordlessly. Once it was to his eye, she remarked, “There are, indeed, no damn rules anymore.”
With the naked eye, Sorcha could see the oncoming storm well enough, but with the spyglass Merrick would be able to see what she’d observed: a ship running before it like a fox pursued by hounds.
Now the Captain was in on the game. Pressing his swelling stomach against the rail, he managed to get his spyglass back. When he looked away from it, his face was pale.
“Now, I’m no sailor,” Sorcha said to him, “but that looks as if the storm is bearing down on it. Do you recognize the ship?”
“The flag is wrapped around the pole but . . . but . . .” Tarce spluttered. “A geist storm, so far from land? It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Impossible?” she snapped. “We know. May I suggest we take the other ship’s example and make a run for safe harbor if we can?”
“All hands!” Tarce flew into action that belied his size. Soon crew were scrambling about the rigging, tying it down and preparing to flee before the wind. Cargo ships ran with the bare minimum of crew to increase profits—it was going to be a close call.
In the midst of it, the two Deacons stood and watched the storm. It was no normal phenomenon of weather. The clouds were purple gray, curled on one another like a group of angry fists. In comparison, the ship racing before the storm looked like a paper boat.
Merrick let out a shuddering breath. “A geist storm and no land in sight—is no rule sacred?”
Sorcha had to agree with him. Whoever had cut loose the rules of the unliving seemed to be following the pair of Deacons. If the Tinkers’ camp had been an attempt at an ambush, as she suspected, then this might be a frontal assault.
Merrick was silent at her side, peering forward. Sorcha felt his Center snap away and, turning, shared his Sight. The clouds were not geist-drawn, but something of the Otherside was in them.
“A witch,” Sorcha spat. “The idiot on that ship has drawn power to give them wind for their sails.”
“It seems to be working rather well.”
She turned on him. “You’re not one of those Deacons, are you, Chambers? The ‘let’s let everyone have a taste of the Otherside’ fools?”
The young man shrugged, and it was confirmed. As far as Sorcha was concerned, witches and warlocks, as those untrained or untrainable by the Abbey called themselves, should still be burned as they had been in the old days. This was supposedly a more enlightened age, but those who meddled with the Otherside still deserved to be punished. Nothing but trouble followed in their wake. Among the younger Deacons and novices, there was a growing movement that felt these untrained were as entitled as Deacons to reach for the power; a belief that they were as worthy of it as any from the Order.