‘I thought we followed the King’s orders, not spied on him,’ I say, more than a little hesitantly.
It’s the wrong thing to say. He grabs the plate and flings it against the wall, smashing it to pieces. He’s furious. ‘You are my daughter. You do as I say.’
I think of the dead man I saw last night, the one I’m now certain was from the King’s Fleet, and wish beyond anything my father would just be honest with me. ‘Is there something you want to tell me about the King? You can trust me, you know.’
He regards me with such obvious contempt I feel my heart break a little, even as it pounds in my chest. ‘And yet you fail every test I give you. You claim you wish to succeed me but you live in a dream, girl. You think the Viper can have hands clean from blood? I see only weakness in you, an inability to do what is necessary.’
He pauses from his brutal honesty to take another mouthful of apple. The juice drips from his lip on to his chin, hanging for a moment before he wipes it roughly away on his sleeve. I remain silent, though the voice in my head shouts a thousand defences to the charges he fires at me.
‘Marry the Prince. Report to me. Prove you have some worth and then we’ll talk about trust.’ He leans forward and points his knife at me. ‘And as for that . . .’ He flicks the blade in the direction of my nose. ‘You are to remain in your cabin for a week. Understand? And if you ever dare disobey my rules again and jeopardise one of my missions with your presence, I will not be so forgiving.’
With that he stands up and I’ve been dismissed. I leave, my ears burning with fury, the depth of my father’s disappointment in me never more apparent. Perhaps he was trying to shock me into submission, or frighten my loyalty to the surface, but it’s had the opposite effect. For so long I’ve sought his approval, been so desperate for him to treat me like his second, that despite every bone in my body screaming against what he is, I’ve still felt I should strive to become the woman he wanted me to be. But not any more. I’m done. I’m not the only one who’s a disappointment.
My father may think I’m useless, but I know something’s going on. If he’s not going to tell me what he’s up to, then I’ll find out myself.
There was a time, long ago, when I moved unseen from corridor to corridor, hiding in narrow hidden passageways. I don’t know who made them, these tight spaces between walls, but whether it was my father or a captain long before him, they were clearly meant for spying.
My favourite thing to do was creep out at night, and slide into the gap that led to a peephole that overlooked the mess hall. Th ough I had no interest in the crew’s boastful conversations about fighting and treasure, sometimes, on particularly wonderful nights, they would share stories – of myths and fables, of where they came from and how they came to be here – and it was this that lured me back time and again.
As I grew older, and the space became increasingly cramped, I stopped going, but now I think it’s time to revisit my secret hiding place. No one is openly going to tell me the things I want to know, but I suspect eavesdropping when their tongues are loosened by rum may prove to be illuminating.
Though it’s a risk to leave my cabin before my father has lifted his punishment, I don’t plan to get caught. There’s no one around as I slip out from my room and tiptoe towards the place where, if you know the right spot to push, the panel springs out, and I slide into the darkness as I replace the wood.
It really is squashed in here, far more than I remember, and it’s quite an effort to slither along, but I manage to reach the peephole with only a few scrapes of my knuckles, and the occasional snag of my dress. And then I watch.
The mess hall is full, the crew making the most of the time after dinner to unwind, their food long since finished and the rum flowing freely. At first glance they are indistinguishable, a sea of black cloth, but if you look beyond the uniform, differences abound. There are men and women from every one of the six Eastern Isles, though with our history and heritages so entwined, it’s hard to be sure where anyone’s from simply by the colour of their skin. Each one of them is from anywhere, everywhere, nowhere. This motley crew have nothing in common – except the ability to kill.
They’re loud and unruly, and it’s hard to pinpoint any one conversation. After about half an hour I’m considering abandoning this pursuit when a voice shouts over the rest.
‘Hey, Nestor!’ It’s a crewman named Briggs, and he has a young woman in a headlock. ‘Lynx here’s never heard of a keelhauling.’
Lynx’s humiliation is obvious even from where I’m concealed, her skin flushed with colour that creeps right up to the top of her smooth, naturally hairless head as she tries and fails to free herself from Briggs’s grip. The room falls quiet, bristling with anticipation. They sense a fight is imminent.
But Nestor is one of the older members of the crew and he hasn’t quite the appetite for drama. He wants a more peaceful night and gestures for Briggs to let her go. Reluctantly Briggs complies, though he holds her by the arm.
Nestor regards Lynx. ‘Call yourself a Snake, and yet you don’t know about keelhauling?’
Lynx shifts uncomfortably. ‘So what?’
A few of the crew laugh. Nestor does not.
‘So what? It’s the worst punishment a captain can bestow on a treacherous soul, and if you don’t fear it, you should.’
‘Imagine a rope passed under the ship from port to starboard,’ Briggs says, tugging Lynx’s arms behind her back. ‘Then imagine being tied to one end of said rope.’
‘Your feet are weighted,’ Nestor continues, and another crewmember leaps up to sit on Lynx’s own feet. ‘And then you’re thrown overboard.’
Briggs yanks Lynx backwards so she falls heavily to the floor.
‘All the crew, your friends, your team, then pull on the other end of the rope, dragging you under and along, scraping your flimsy body against the keel of the ship, your flesh torn to ribbons by barnacles and any skull crabs lurking there.’
‘You have no air.’ Briggs demonstrates by smothering Lynx. ‘The water fills your lungs as you try to scream, and you wonder if you’ll live to see the other side.’
Nestor gets to his feet now and strolls to stand over Lynx’s body, her eyes wide and pleading as she struggles in vain to breathe through Briggs’s clenched fingers. ‘Some are hoisted up so shredded they wish they’d drowned in the depths. But here’s the thing. The captain don’t really want you dead. The crew pull you through fast. Because it’s a torture, not an execution. A punishment, not an end. And if you’ve been really, truly naughty?’ He pauses for dramatic effect. ‘Then round you go again for a second trip.’
Finally Briggs releases Lynx and she gasps for air, scrambling to get away from them while several of the crew roar with laughter.
I want to smash through the wall and punch that smug expression off their faces, Lynx’s public humiliation stirring up painful memories of the one I’d endured. Instead I glance around for Grace, certain she’ll step in, only to see her and Bronn lurking at a table in a dark corner. They are entirely uninterested in what’s just occurred and while I expect nothing more from Bronn, I’m angry with Grace. How could she just let that happen? Why didn’t she come to Lynx’s aid the way she did to mine?