“Of course. You’re Gunthar’s nephew, correct?”
“Yes, sire.” He drops into a bow, then straightens, chest puffed. “I’m good friends with the future High Mistress.”
Well.
I remove the splinter from my mouth and crouch, meeting his gaze at eye level before flashing him a half smile. “That makes usinstantfriends.”
His freckle-dusted cheeks swell with a grin, and he nods. “I’d like that very much.”
“Good. Now,” I say, roughing up his hair, “close the door at the top of the stairs on your way out.”
“Yes, sire.”
He takes off toward the stairwell, footsteps so silent I barely hear a thing, reminding me of Orlaith.
“Zane,” I call, before he disappears from sight.
He stops and turns, dashing hair from his eyes. “Yes, High Master?”
I point the splinter at him. “No more snooping through this keyhole, you hear?”
I’ve never seen a more enthusiastic nod.
“Good boy. Off you go.” I dismiss him with a flick of my hand, chewing the splinter while waiting for the door to snick shut at the top of the stairs. I jam the key in the hole and twist just as the ship creaks and groans—kicking forward.
The stowage door swings wide, and I step into the murk, screwing up my nose at the smell of piss, body odor, vomit, and hard liquor. There’s a lantern hanging off a hook by the door, and I turn its dial, spilling light throughout the room that’s half packed with barrels and crates and casks of spirits stacked against the walls.
And in the middle of it all is Vanth—on his knees, stretched arms bound around the wrists by separate ropes attached to opposite ends of the ceiling.
A soiled strip of rag gags him, his head lolled to the side and resting on his shoulder, right eye swollen and framed with a gnarly punch of purple skin.
I clear my throat.
Groaning, he sluggishly seeks me through a squint, then jerks to full awareness.
“Well,” I say, dragging a crate across the floor and sitting before him. I pull the splinter from between my pursed lips and point it directly at his face. “You, sir, look mighty uncomfortable.”
He nods, trying to shape words around the material clogging his mouth.
All that comes out is a garbled mess.
Retrieving the small blade strapped to my calf, I slide it between his cheek and the gag, watching him flinch as I cut it free.
“Better?”
He stretches his jaw before he speaks, the words coarse through his cracked lips. “Much. Thank you, High Master.”
“Of course. Thirsty?”
His gaze shifts to the bucket and ladle nearby. “It, ahh ... ithasbeen a while since I’ve been offered a drink.”
I set my blade on the crate and drag the bucket close, then place the brimming scoop against his mouth and tip.
He drains it, and I repeat the process twice more before he nods.
“How’s that?”
“Much better,” he says through a deep, satiated breath. “Thank you, High Master.”
