Neither the fire-tender nor I speak as I pass, content to let our brief eye contact convey a well-mannered good morning.
I pause as I reach the edge of the first ring of tents opposite ours, because I sense movement in one of the shelters, one I know too well, because a red flag flutters wildly above it. Gard’s tent. The Rider war leader. My leader. It’s not Gard, however, who steps out.
Remy.
His black skin’s a shadow against the brown of his tent. Through the fog I catch his smile.
Moving on.
I turn to continue on to the stables, angry at the clutch of embarrassment I feel in my gut after running from him yesterday.
His hand on my arm stops me. “Let go,” I hiss.
His hand darts back and his smile fades, but then reappears seconds later. “Heading to the stables?” he asks.
“No.” Yes. Argh. Why does he continue to follow me around? “Sorry, I really don’t have time to talk,” I say.
“Let me guess, training,” he says, the warmth of his smile quirking into a smirk.
I frown. “Yeah, so,” I say. “Riders may be born, but great Riders are made.” Another of my mother’s sayings, one I’ve always loved, have always believed in, but which now sounds ridiculous on my lips.
Remy raises an eyebrow. He thinks I’m ridiculous. “Don’t you ever stop training, you know, to just be a girl?”
My frown deepens into a scowl. “No…and I’m not a girl, I’m a Rider.”
He laughs loudly, breaking the code of morning silence just as the edge of the sun breaks the horizon, spreading pink to the east and graying the dark clouds overhead.
Instinctively, we both look up. When we drop our gaze once more, he says, “Trust me, you’re a girl, too.” I don’t like the way my hands sweat when he looks me up and down.
“I’ve got to find my mother,” I say, turning away from Remy and toward the stables, striding away quickly.
“I thought you weren’t going to the stables,” Remy says, pulling up alongside me.
Right. So much for my sharp mind. “I’m not,” I lie. “Not really. I’m just seeing if my mother’s there.”
“Well, Sadie-who’s-not-going-to-the-stables, I’ll walk with you while you don’t go to the stables,” Remy says, flashing that annoying smirk of his once more.
“Fine,” I say, “as long as you don’t speak.”
Ignoring me, he says, “What do you think about your father’s vision?”
I can’t stop myself from flinching. Was I the last to know? Probably, considering the first time my father tried to tell me, I started a fight with him and ran away.
“I’m going with them,” I say, snapping my mouth shut as soon as the words come out. Why did I say that? I don’t even have a horse yet. I haven’t finished training.
“You are?” Remy says. “But I thought your ceremony wasn’t for another few months.”
“They’ll make an exception,” I say, firming up my voice, as if I’m on my way to discuss it with Remy’s father right now.
Remy laughs, grabs my hand, stops me. “You’re so full of horse dung, Sadie. My father doesn’t make exceptions.”
I grit my teeth and wrench my hand from Remy’s grip. Anger bursts through me like a crashing wave.
Because I know Remy’s right.
Chapter Eleven
Huck
When I finally leave my cabin, full of brown gruel that tasted even worse than it looked, the sun is well beyond its peak, the sky a dark bloody red. Right away, I wish I hadn’t hidden in there for so long.
It only made things worse. Now everyone stares at me as I walk along the quarterdeck, trying to look like a leader. But no matter how high I raise my chin or how straight I keep my back, I feel like a boy pretending to be a lieutenant, all the way to the clean, blue uniform, which feels more like a costume than a sign of my position.
A test, I remember. Maybe my last chance to prove myself to my father.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hobbs watching my every move, his usual frown-smile plastered on his face.
I ignore him and look around, taking it all in. The scene is consistent with when I arrived: men and women alike, sleeping, some sipping bottles of grog, some telling jokes, laughing and slapping their knees. One woman struggles to clip wet clothes to a line strung up between two masts. A few men are working, too, swinging the tattered sails around to catch the wind properly, but they’re struggling because the wind is swirling, changing direction so quickly that using sails is a near-impossibility. Why doesn’t anyone say something? I wonder. The captain, one of the other lieutenants, somebody…
“Where’s the captain?” I ask myself.
“In his favorite spot,” a voice says from behind.
I shudder and turn quickly.
Barney stands nearby, looking off at the far end of the quarterdeck, near where Hobbs is standing, still watching me. But my steward isn’t looking at Hobbs, his gaze is locked on a swinging bundle to the left of him. A salt-yellowed hammock rocks back and forth in the wind, wisps of smoke curling up from where the captain lays, pipe in his mouth, eyes closed, either oblivious or disinterested in the complete lack of competence on the decks of his ship.
Ignoring Hobbs’ dagger-stares, I march on up to the captain and tap him on the shoulder. He awakes with a start, his pipe falling from his lips and onto his grungy uniform. He scrabbles for it, manages to pluck it off his chest, but not before it leaves a black circle burned into his shirt.
“What in the Deep Blue?” he says, his tired eyes flashing to mine. So he was asleep, setting a good example for his men. “Something I can do for you, Lieutenant?”
“Well, I, uh, I just thought…”
“Spit it out, boy!” he says, not too nicely.
When he calls me boy, something snaps in me, something that evens my words out, allows them to flow with confidence. “We’ve fallen behind the other ships,” I say. I add, “Sir,” as an afterthought.
“And?” he says.
Dumbfounded, I gawk at the captain in his hammock, not a care in the world, except maybe not getting burned by his bloody pipe. We sail for our livelihood, to fill our nets with fish, to reach our next safe landing zone to find fresh water to sate our dry throats. We’ve done it for years, since the time that the first Soakers constructed the first ships out of driftwood, broken from homes during what everyone believed was the end of days. We sail to survive. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he care?
“And…we need to catch up,” I say.
“Then catch up!” he says, sticking his pipe between his lips before rolling over.
I want to kick him, to pound my fists against him, to tell him he’s the worst captain ever and that his ship is the laughingstock of my father’s fleet. But that’s the tantrum of a child. For the first time in my life I wonder if it’s all worth it—the ships, the sailing, the fishing. We could settle down somewhere, like the Stormers, live off the land. There’s plenty of uninhabited land along our fishing route. We could pick a spot and just take it, leave the ships behind forever.
But even the thought sends my heart sinking into my stomach. Leave the ships? Leave the sea? Settle down? It’s just not in us—it’s not in me. My people were made for the sea and I know we’ll never leave it. So that means…