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Oblivious to the attention he’s receiving, the man smokes a cigar and mutters to himself as he twitches a hand in the air in front of his face. He’s either waving away a fly or conversing with a hallucination.

“He looks bored,” Bartholomew adds.

Ayan wrinkles his nose at the battered vessel. “Never mind the captain. It’s a miracle that thing still floats.”

It must have been a tour ship at one time—the type that ferries people along the coast and makes routine stops in Ryddleport. But judging from the mishmash of battered barrels, dirty sacks, and several empty livestock cages littering the deck, it appears to have become a goods ship of sorts—not that I would trust the captain or his crew with my valuables.

After a long moment, Clover nods. “Go ask him, Lawrence.”

My jaw drops as I turn to the prim-looking lady beside me, wondering if I misheard her. She wears a silken gown suited for court today, amber-colored, with small rolled-up bundles of fabric on the bodice that I believe are supposed to resemble roses.

Her hair is elaborately fixed again, held half up with a pearl comb. More pearls dot her ears, and another hangs as a pendant around her neck.

If Clover were to nestle a crown in her curls—and perhaps remove the bow and quiver from her back—she’d look like a queen.

All day, men have watched the noble archeress curiously, intrigued by the captivating juxtaposition that is Clover. Their attention sets me on edge.

Lawrence and Bartholomew have noticed as well, and neither looks pleased. In fact, the only one who is oblivious to the attention she receives is Clover herself.

Oblivious…or indifferent. She exudes so much confidence, some days, it’s hard to tell which it is.

“Youwantto take that man’s ship to Ferradelle?” Lawrence asks her incredulously.

Clover shrugs. “He looks like a criminal.”

Ayan laughs. “And that’s…good?”

“If you pay a criminal enough money, they aren’t likely to ask questions.”

“They’re also likely to steal your fancy pearls and dump you into the middle of the sea,” Ayan points out.

A smirk toys at the edge of Clover’s mouth as she fiddles with her necklace. “He’d have to get through Henrik first.” She turns her eyes on me. “I don’t see that happening. Do you, soldier?”

I resist the urge to swallow, trying not to let her teasing praise make me waver about the captain and his questionable vessel.

Gruffly, I say, “Let’s keep looking.”

* * *

Several hours later,much to my great reluctance, we return to the battered ship.

“Hello?” Lawrence calls as we walk up the warped gangplank. “Captain, are you aboard?”

There is no answer, and I’m about to suggest we try the other supply ships one more time, when Ayan hollers, “Found him!”

Unfortunately, we find him as well.

Squinting in the bright light of late afternoon, the captain sits up from his nap.

“Who are you?” he barks. “What do you want?”

Peering at us with a scrunched-up expression, he swings his legs over the side of the patchwork hammock he’s strung between old crates.

He takes off his cap and scrubs a hand through his disheveled hair, revealing gently pointed ears and a receding hairline.

“You’re an elf?” Lawrence says, startled. Then he pauses, looking unsure. “Aren’t you?”

The captain’s expression grows darker. “What’s it to you if I’m an elf, a human, or a filthy Gorbian? What are you doing traipsing about my ship?”