“Rustbloods,” she said, loud enough for them to hear.
A soldier at the end picked up his pace, avoiding Maya’s glare.
Elena glanced at Maya’s uniform.Strange.Hers was the same dark slate grey as the Sesharian officers, but Maya regarded the others with derision, and they regarded her with fear.
Jantari officers passed then, nodding to Maya, who saluted stiffly. They barely gave her a second glance. Faintly, Elena could hear the bustle of a ship at work: the rumble of orders, the drum of boots, the quick staccato of guns firing during a weapons check. But the Sesharians were quiet. And she could feel their tensely corded anxiety as they followed the officers down an adjoining hall. One woman passed something into Maya’s hand. She pocketed it quickly.
They went above to the quarterdeck where two Jantari officers, including the captain, oversaw Sesharians scrubbing grime from the deck. Dark liquid sluiced across the floor. Elena realized a moment too late that it was blood, and she let out a small yelp. The captain turned.
“Ah. So our mysterious passenger survived. Did you manage to stop the bleeding, healer?”
“Yes, sir,” Maya said. “She’s good as new. Name’s Aadya.”
“Good.” The captain assessed her, his eyes scanning her hair, her face, her arms and legs. “And what is she trained in?”
“She can shadow me, sir,” Maya said quickly. “Get her familiar with the ship.”
“No, I don’t need you babysitting. Put her in the laundry. The least she can do is clean out her blood from these rags.” He nodded to one of the Sesharians. “You. Give her yours.”
Elena accepted the rag, thin rivulets of rust-colored water beading down her fingers.
“Clean,” the captain commanded.
Elena did not move. She stared at the rag in her hand, and then at Maya. Her face was carefully neutral, though Elena could see the warning in her eyes.
“Are you deaf, islander?” the captain said.
Elena slowly lowered onto her hands and knees and began to rub at the dried blood. There was so much. Surely this could not all be hers. And then Elena looked up and saw the Sesharians strung along the upper railing. Her heart stuttered to a halt. There were three, their arms and legs pinned up, their heads bare to the sun, blood caked on their faces.
The captain and his first officer stood nonchalantly underneath the hanged men, their white, crisp uniforms garishly bright in contrast. Elena could not tell how long the dead men had been up there, but she noticed how the deckhands did not dare look up. Did not dare stop. Did not dare show their grief, or their anger.
There was a charged quiet in the air, filled with the overzealous sound of brushes scraping against the deck. Them, scrubbing their frustration away. The Sesharian beside her caught her gaze. He was a young boy, no more than fifteen, with thick black curls pulled back in a low bun. When the captain turned to consult his officer, the boy leaned closer.
“They said you were screaming about monsters when they pulled you in,” he whispered.
“Was I?”
He nodded. “It’s got everyone on the ship talking about the Serpent’sshadows. That nasty cut on your leg—” He stopped abruptly when the first officer glanced back. It was the same man from before, the one with an upturned nose and dirty ashen hair.
“What was that, boy?”
“N-nothing, sir,” he said quickly.
“Come here.”
The color drained from the boy’s face. He stood obediently. Elena had the sudden urge to pull him back, to pull him down, but the boy moved forward, his movements stiff and stilted. He came to a salute before the officer.
“Now tell me what you just said to her.”
The boy said nothing, his head bowed.
The officer glared at her. “You, girl, up.”
Elena stood slowly, fisting the rag to stop her hand from shaking.
“What did he say to you?”
“Nothing,” she said.
