Page 39 of Carousel

“What does that mean?”

“Some weren’t seen again. Most are still here.”

“How many?”

She shrugs. “They just wear standard uniform once they’re FI’d, so it’s hard to keep track. Fourteen or fifteen, maybe?”

It doesn’t make any sense.

What is Dezeeves doing to these soldiers? It sounds impossible.

It sounds like…

Magic.

Could he have access to some kind of blood magic? This wouldn’t be a minor magic. This would have to be something incredibly powerful. Maybe even a talent from the Queen’s immediate family.

“And those who weren’t seen again?” I dare to ask.

Riss narrows her grey eyes. “Do I need to answer that?”

Fair enough.

Drake asks, glancing at Cosmer, “And their keepers? What would happen to them?”

“Any failed mission,” she starts, “Could be Negligence. Which would get you a Trial on Deck.”

A trial.

Which could lead to –

“They could kill you too for this?” I gasp.

She pinches her nose. “Yes. Executions all around. Are we happy?”

She doesn’t wait for us to respond. Just yanks out toothbrushes, soap and paste and bundles of black clothing from the crate. “These are your uniforms. I had to guess your sizes. If they don’t fit – tough.”

She pushes them towards us. Even though she’s shorter than us all, she somehow seems to look down at us as she says, “In an emergency, your station would be Deck 3, with us – starboard. Wait for us, or instructions from other officers. Bring your oxygen masks with you – they’ll be in your cabins, under your beds. Which leads me onto the last thing.” She takes an uneasy breath.

It makes me nervous.

“Sleeping arrangements. Cosmer and I will have to move out of our officer cabins. Standard cabins either sleep two or four. Keepers are expected to stay with their prisoners to monitor them. Even at night.”

I wriggle in my seat.

I hadn’t thought about having to sleep on the ship next to others. It’s always felt, to me, a private activity to be done alone, or between married couples.

“Then we will sleep four to a cabin,” Drake states. “Seems logical enough.”

“We can’t do that,” she replies, fast and factual.

“Why not?” I ask.

“How would we know you weren’t conspiring with each other while we slept? Preparing to murder us?”

I stare at her with disbelief. “Us murder you? With what? Our blunt forks?”

To prove my point – because I’m angry now – I stab the cured meat on my plate. The stunted fork, unsurprisingly, doesn’t even make a dent.