‘What the . . .?’ Bronn says, nearly losing his balance. Clearly he was expecting a little more gratitude.
‘I don’t need your help.’ Unfortunately this is blatantly untrue, which annoys me further.
Grace swoops in beside me, stemming the flow of blood from my nose, which I’m certain is broken. ‘What are you doing out here?’ She’s as surprised as she is concerned to find me in this mess.
‘Are you insane?’ Bronn pays no attention to Grace, his anger entirely reserved for me. ‘I just saved your life.’
‘Is that why you did it? To have me in your debt? How did you know I’d fallen overboard?’ I feel guilty even as the words are coming out of my mouth, but of all the people who had to save me why did it have to be him?
‘You’re unbelievable!’ he shouts at me. ‘Would you rather I’d left you to die?’
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, I scream in my head.
But all I can bring myself to say is, ‘How about you just stay away from me?’
Bronn grunts. ‘With pleasure. Your prince is welcome to you.’
Grace clears her throat and fixes me with a look that perfectly combines her worry and frustration as she helps me to my feet.
‘Is now really the best time?’ she says, and she has a point. Between the fighting and the storm, there are more pressing matters at hand. ‘You, come with me,’ she says, before hurrying me towards my quarters.
I glance back to glare at Bronn, but he’s already gone, lost in the sea of people. Instead my gaze falls on the body of a fallen sailor – not one of ours. Lying face up on the deck, his shirt exposed, I’m sure he’s wearing the emblem of the King’s Fleet. But that doesn’t make any sense. They’re our ally, not our enemy – even if that relationship isn’t always friendly.
It’s been a long time since the Viper headed up the King’s Fleet. Now we work alongside them to protect the Isles; they uphold the King’s honour, while we deal with the less palatable side of things. Mostly we keep out of each other’s way, our missions never overlapping. When the King sends us orders, we obey, and in exchange we are free to do what we want – and what my father wants is to be feared. The Fleet would rather we didn’t exist at all, but the King likes having someone prepared to do his dirty work. We may not use the same tactics, but our overall purposes are aligned: protect the King and the peace of the Isles.
The question is, why is one of them dead on our deck?
Only once we are safely in my cabin does Grace speak again. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘I’m fine, thanks for your concern.’ I grab a cloth and press it hard to my nose.
‘Let’s see,’ she says, leaning in to inspect the damage and sighing. ‘Well, it’s broken, but it could have been worse. If Bronn hadn’t seen you go over . . .’
She trails off. We both know I was lucky.
‘What’s going on out there?’ I ask, still trying to make sense of what I saw, hoping she’ll explain everything.
‘Orders from the King,’ Grace says. ‘The Prince delivered them earlier. Some thieves who needed to be taught a lesson. We caught up with them sooner than expected or I would have told you.’
I can hear the lie even as it sits so effortlessly on her tongue. Because clearly the Prince wouldn’t have asked us to attack his own father’s fleet. I can think of no good reason why we would. Swallowing hard, I push back my fears, not wanting to think about what her deception means, what my father might be up to. And it hurts more than it should that Grace isn’t telling me the truth. ‘Shouldn’t we get back out there?’ It surprises even me how easily I can hide my emotions from her.
‘I should. You’re staying here. What would Torin say if you got murdered on your day of engagement?’
I roll my eyes, but don’t argue. We both know I shouldn’t have been there in the first place, that I defied my father’s orders.
Once she’s gone I slide into my hammock, but with the storm still throwing the Maiden around with alarming force and the awful sound of men and women dying carrying on the wind, sleep eludes me. I hate that I’m so powerless down here. For all the danger, at least when I was fighting I had some control. My father’s orders don’t make me feel protected. They make me isolated. Helpless.
Whenever I close my eyes I see the dead man, so clearly a member of the King’s Fleet, and though I try to explain away his presence I struggle to come up with an answer that’s in any way reassuring.
I keep my knife by my side, clenched in my fist. I am trapped. Caught in a war I hadn’t even known was happening. There is no one I can trust – I’m completely on my own.
By morning all is calm and while the crew revel in their spoils I make an early visit to Milligan, the ship’s surgeon. My nose has swollen to unpleasant proportions and I am hopeful she can help, though she’s more in the business of breaking bones than mending them. Her understanding of anatomy and her skill with a blade make her an excellent doctor and an even better inquisitor. Not many withstand Milligan’s torture.
It’s been a long time since I’ve ventured to her quarters, though I used to while away more hours there than I care to remember. The stench of the room reaches me long before I arrive, a combination of brewing tonics and rotting flesh.
When I appear at her door, Milligan grunts her indifference, barely looking up from what she’s doing. I am not the only one seeking her remedies – many of the crew sustained injuries in last night’s fight and Milligan has her hands full.
‘Oh. It’s you, is it?’ I can tell she’s overjoyed to see me. ‘Well, don’t just stand there – make yourself useful.’
When she says nothing more, just continues to stitch up a large gash in a crewmember’s thigh, I reluctantly make my way in. It’s strange to be back here again, having avoided it for so long. But despite myself, I’m drawn to the simmering pot on the fire, and breathe in the fumes. Barkwood and coralpine – a tonic for pain. One Milligan clearly hasn’t given to her patient judging by the look on his face.
‘Don’t hover, girl,’ she snaps.
Realising I’m going to have to earn any treatment of my own, I offer to help a man called Amos, who’s badly broken the little finger on his left hand. The bone has pierced the skin, and infection will be quick to settle in unless it’s treated soon.
Tearing some cloth, and grabbing some kindling for the fire, I set about creating a splint. If I can push the bone back in, treat the wound with some ointment, then set it straight, it should heal without complication.
‘It’s going to hurt,’ I warn Amos, as I explain my plan. I avoid asking him how he sustained the injury in the first place. The less I dwell on the details of last night, the better.
But as I clean the skin around the wound with salted water, wanting it free from dirt before I replace the bone, Milligan shuffles over and pushes me out of the way.
‘What are you doing?’
Again I outline my proposed treatment, and Milligan narrows her beady eyes.
‘Did I teach you nothing?’ she says in disgust.
And without another word she clasps Amos by the wrist, pulls him towards her filthy workbench, slams his hand on to it, splays his fingers and brings a cleaver down, removing the offending digit in one vicious movement.