Sorcha knew of nobles who would kill for such effects. But she was damned if she was going to tell him this. “I don’t know what you mean,” she snapped, feeling her body respond to the unliving effect.
The flicker of concern slipped from his features and was replaced by the kind of dark scowl that should have thrown ice over her. It didn’t. “Well, then maybe you can explain why you are taking advantage of my good nature by breaking into private property?”
She felt a pang of guilt, but didn’t let it show. Shoving the book toward its owner, she tried to act flippant. “As a Deacon, I have the right to examine any item I think may contain information on the unliving.”
His jaw clenched. “Again, we are back to that.” He leaned forward once more, both hands now on the table. “I am not—repeat, not—a citizen of the Empire, so your foolish rules do not apply.”
Sorcha laughed shortly. Spinning on her heel, she threw herself onto the chair in a studied example of indifference. “I would think our agreement gives me the right. After all, I may have to throw myself between you and a raging geist at any point.”
His mouth opened and she was sure there was a bitter retort ready to come, yet he bit it back. Sorcha swung her leg over the arm of the chair and tried not to inhale his scent.
Instead of replying, he made a grunt of displeasure and turned his back on her to open the sea chest. She tried to crane her head as subtly as possible, but it appeared all he was taking out was a clean shirt. Ignoring her completely, he stripped down to the waist.
If Sorcha didn’t know better, she would have sworn that he was deliberately trying to distract her. Admiring the shifting planes of the muscles in his back was certainly diverting, but the fact remained: this man was the burning light, and the places they were going would be full of very large, very dangerous moths. She clenched her fingers in the arm of the chair and reminded herself that her reaction was all related to the Curse.
When he turned around suddenly, Sorcha quickly flicked her eyes away—hopefully, quickly enough. “I appreciate your talents, Deacon Faris”—his voice was softer—“but I am still captain of this ship. And, while on my ship, I would be grateful if you at least showed me the common courtesy of a houseguest to a host.”
Sorcha’s mouth twisted. “A host that could turn into a raging beast at any moment.”
For a moment, his hazel eyes reflected the light of the waning sun. “Yes, and you’d do well to remember that in the future,” he growled, his body tense like a coiled spring.
Sorcha’s heartbeat leapt up two levels and her skin prickled as if in the presence of a geist. Every instinct screamed to her to leap out of the chair and wrench on her Gauntlets, but a quick flick of her Center revealed nothing but the flaming presence of the Pretender.
She forced herself to remain still, though her mouth was dry and her hands trembled with their yearning to be wielding power. Instead, she let him get away with something she rarely allowed: having the last word. He stormed out of his own cabin, taking his disturbing presence, thankfully, away.
For the next two days, Sorcha took Merrick’s advice and stayed in the cabin. Even Nynnia was better company than the Captain. Merrick, however, seldom ventured below. Her partner had taken it on himself to watch the seas for more unliving activity. Across the Bond, Sorcha could feel his guilt at not having spotted the sea monster that had brought them to this. He ran himself hard, napping on the quarterdeck when exhaustion claimed him.
While he slept, Sorcha would venture above decks, drape her cloak over him and take up his duties as best she could with her Sight. The crew seemed to take comfort in the fact that two Deacons were on board. After their initial fright, they began to see the advantages and show some proper respect for their passengers.
They also seemed intrigued by the Breed horses. The stallion and mare were in the small confines of the cargo hold, along with two goats and a crate of chickens. Sorcha visited, but found two crew members tending to them, one carefully grooming the mare while a slight young girl fed Shedryi lumps of sugar. The old devil rolled one eye at her as if in embarrassment but snuffled up the remaining sugar like a child’s pony.
Apart from watching over Merrick, Sorcha found herself next to useless on the ship, and while the same had been true on the first vessel, somehow this was different. The Pretender watched her but did not approach, probably still annoyed about her little slipup. She was very glad when the coastline moved from ragged cliffs to undulating tundra and Ulrich itself came into view.
Joining the throng on the deck, Sorcha discovered Ulrich was just as bleak as she feared. She’d seen many little towns just like it, huddled on the edge of the Empire, scraping an existence out of the sea. It was low-lying and gray, and the only thing to recommend it was the deep harbor and wharf jutting out into the sullen ocean. To the right of the jetty, a long stretch of sandy beach continued the half-moon shape of the bay.
The relief of the crew around her was palpable. Merrick wriggled his way past them to stand at her side. “I’ve never been so glad to see dry land.” He rubbed his darkly circled eyes wearily and leaned on the gunwales.
A twinge of sympathy disturbed her own dark thoughts. “You’ll be able to rest in the Priory.” She pointed to the one hill that looked above the town. “I suppose that will be it.”
Priories were usually ramshackle affairs, yet this one looked to be the proudest building in the town; with its white stone and parapets, it almost resembled a fortification.
Both Deacons glanced at each other with raised eyebrows.
Nynnia had followed in Merrick’s wake and, seeing their confused expression, laughed. “Everybody is surprised at Ulrich Priory. It was built as part of the defenses of Felstaad, hundreds of years ago when this area was being fought over.”
“Who would war over this place?” Merrick wondered aloud.
Sorcha knew enough of her history to answer that one, before Nynnia could impress him. “This area used to be rich with minerals, gold and silver in particular. But those were mined out over a hundred years ago.”
“Now there is only the fishing”—Nynnia tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear—“and no one is prepared to go to war over herring.”
“Not even good herring.” The Pretender’s voice made Sorcha jump a little. She didn’t turn her head to acknowledge him as he continued. “But it will suit us well enough to beach Dominion and get her careened and repaired.”
“Careened?” Nynnia asked.
“It means scraping all the barnacles off the ship’s arse.” Sorcha turned and beamed at the girl. “Useful if you want to keep out of the way of the Imperial Navy.”
She could feel Merrick tensing at her side. Diplomacy wasn’t her best skill—she’d never really needed it before. She let the Sensitives deal with all of that.
Dominion docked easily enough at the jetty, with local harbor workers rushing up to tether the ship. No other vessel could be seen, and at this time of year the workers would be grateful of the fee.
Raed grinned as his first mate handed him papers. Sorcha glanced at them, but one look at the Captain’s face told her that he wasn’t about to explain. He leapt lightly off the ship, before the gangplank could be added, and strode in the direction of the harbormaster’s building at the end of the quay.
“You’d better go after him, Chambers.” Sorcha could feel her lips settling into an unhappy line. “You made the deal, so go and make sure no little geist creeps up on him.”
Not as limber on board as the Pretender, her partner scrambled to obey.