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F ROM THE SHADOWS of a tunnel, Graylin studied the towering bulwark of the Sharpened Spur. The curve of the warship’s hull rose in a great wave in front of him. Higher up, lanterns glowed. Echoes of patrols reached him. Above, the sleek gasbag shuddered and quaked, buffeted by storm winds.

To help anchor the Spur, scores of mooring lines had been cast out—from the deck to the walls, but also down to the shelf of sandstone beneath the keel. The warship, being smaller in size than the Fyredragon, had dropped almost to the bottom of the pocket. Its captain had clearly wanted as much distance as possible between his ship and the storm.

Still, despite its smaller bulk, the Spur remained formidable.

Graylin frowned at its rows of armaments, recognizing the threat they represented. Countless times while trekking here, he had questioned this mission, especially after the attack by the creatures in the chasm. But upon seeing all of this, he knew this attempt had to be made.

Overhead, iron cannons bristled across the open decks. Giant cauldrons lined bow and stern, likely already sloshing with oil. Once set aflame, those pots could spill fiery ruin on a ship below. Everywhere else, where space afforded, scores of giant ballistas held steel arrows at the ready, waiting for those massive bows to be cranked taut.

Graylin shook his head, trying not to be intimidated, especially when viewing their own weapon of assault, one not unlike a ballista.

Vikas held a small crossbow at her shoulder, one she had unfolded from her pack. She aimed it toward the lower curve of the hull.

Crouched by her side, Rhaif pointed. “That should be the hatch into the mizzen hold.” He turned to Fenn. “Is that right?”

The navigator tore his gaze down. He looked ready to leap that distance and scale up the side of the ship, but he nodded. “That’s the one.”

Rhaif patted Vikas and pointed higher. “Aim two spans above it.”

Without any acknowledgment, the quartermaster pulled the trigger on the bow, timing the shot to a loud wail of the storm. The bolt struck where Rhaif had wanted. It also dragged a scaling rope behind it. The line’s length was looped with footholds.

“Well done,” Rhaif said. “Of course, you’ve left me the hardest part.”

Vikas sat back and repeated an earlier Gynish gesture: Sod that.

The thief shrugged, then lifted the trailing end of the line. He hooked his toe into a loop and glanced to those gathered behind him. “See you aboard.”

Rhaif cast himself out of the tunnel and swung in a sweeping drop over to the hull. He struck it deftly, raising no more than a quiet thump. From there, he used the loops to climb to the hatch.

As Rhaif undid the satchel as his belt, Graylin turned to the group, his gaze falling on Esme. “You’ve gotten us this far as promised. You and Crikit retreat into the tunnel. In case anything goes wrong.”

“I can fight,” she argued. “I’ve trained years with a hesharyn, a Chanaryn sand-dancer.”

As if proving this, she flicked a wrist and a dagger appeared in her hand.

Graylin reached over and pushed her wrist down. “If it comes to a fight, we’ll lose. We’re outmatched. Stealth is our only hope. If trouble arises, someone needs to make their way back to the Fyredragon, to let them know of our failure, to ready our ship for a battle.”

Graylin frowned up at the bristling line of weapons.

With the Fyredragon so badly outmatched, their group had no choice but to risk this foolhardy attempt.

He turned to face Rhaif.

But to do that, we must first get inside.

R HAIF BALANCED ON his line and slowly turned a crank, drilling a thumb-sized hole through the outer hatch with a steel awl. Shavings drifted out, but he caught them in his lap. While it was unlikely anyone would spot a rain of curls falling below, he couldn’t shake his old habits.

His training within the guild had been severe, exacting, and pitiless.

Especially under Llyra’s strict tutelage, where those same three dictates applied whenever she took him into her bed.

He sighed, feeling wistful, wishing he had never left. Of course, it was Llyra who had eventually betrayed him, selling him out to gain leverage with the archsheriff of Anvil.

Still, he missed those years with the guild.

Even her.

He shoved this down and continued working.

Nostalgia did not serve a thief.

Finally, the tip of his awl broke through to the other side. Rhaif paused, leaning his ear to the hatch, making sure no alarm was raised. He glanced up, too, but the curve of the hull kept him out of view of any patrols.

He withdrew the awl, dropped it into his satchel, and replaced it with a narrow tube tipped by a fish-eye lens. He passed the tool through the hole and spied upon the hold on the far side. The space appeared empty. Long shelves lined both sides. They held bolts of thick fabric, for crafting patches to repair any tears in the gasbag. Thick dust covered the rolls. The Spur likely hadn’t seen a battle in ages—if ever. It was why this point of entry had been picked. With the ship docked down here, there would be little reason for anyone to be inside the room.

Satisfied, Rhaif slipped out the lens and inserted tiny tools with small blades. He set about blindly cutting the interior guide rope, to free the door from the latch inside. It did not take long. As he felt the tension snap, he hopped to the side and caught the drop of the door on his shoulder. He lowered the hatch until it lay flat, forming a bridge not unlike the one they had used to exit the Fyredragon. Only this one didn’t extend all the way to the wall. A short hop would be necessary to mount it.

To encourage this, Rhaif stepped off his rope and onto the open hatch door. He bowed with a sweep of an arm, inviting the others to join him.

He expected Graylin to leap first, but before the knight could move, Fenn jumped across and shouldered past Rhaif, nearly knocking him off his perch.

Rhaif scowled at his rudeness.

Clearly someone’s spent too much time aboard a pirate ship.

Still, he kept this to himself and offered more gracious words.

“Welcome home, Fenn,” Rhaif said as he followed the navigator inside. “But let’s not overstay our visit.”

G RAYLIN LED THE way out of the mizzen hold.

Next to him, Fenn had changed into a habiliment of Bhestyan finery: silken breeches, calf-high boots, and a waistcoat lined by silver hooks. The navigator had retained this old clothing after joining Darant’s crew. Some wear and moth-bitten holes marred the grandeur, but Fenn’s new appearance should suffice if they needed a moment of confusion or distraction.

If nothing else, Fenn did strike a regal figure, looking very much like the son of a high minister. The clothing also fit the task given to Fenn and Jace.

When Graylin reached a set of steep stairs heading down, he called a halt to the group. From here, they would split up. Fenn had sketched out a schematic of the warship. Trained as a navigator in Bhestya, intending to serve as honorably as his dead brother in the kingdom’s brigade, Fenn knew all the ships of the royal fleet.

As such, both groups knew where they had to go from here.

Graylin shifted his pack higher on his shoulders and stared around the group. “Mind the time,” he warned them all. “After Vikas and I plant Hyck’s bomb under the flashburn tanks, we must be quick. Hyck trimmed a quarter-bell fuse. We have only that much time to get clear. Is that understood?”

After everyone confirmed this, Graylin pointed to Fenn. “Go to the brig. Seek out your sister. If she’s not there, you head straight back to the mizzen hold.” He swung his finger to encompass Jace and Rhaif. “Drag him back if you must.”

Graylin had allowed this much latitude in this mission. He owed it to Fenn, for all the lad had done in the past, for what would be needed in the future. But Graylin refused any more leniency than that.

He got nods from the others—firm from Jace and Rhaif, reluctant from Fenn.

Satisfied, Graylin set off with Vikas. He wondered if he should have taken up Darant’s offer of more men. Their two groups looked far too small considering the size of this warship. He knew from past experience that stealth often only got you so far.

Still, Graylin had staked out this path and had no choice but to walk it.

He prayed it ended well.

R HAIF USED A small mirror to spy around the corner. A door, flanked by two hanging lanterns, stood closed with a heavy bar across its frame. A guard leaned on its jamb, his chin resting on his collarbone, looking near to drowsing off.

So far, they had made it to the brig without raising an alarm. Though it was less from any skilled slyness and more about the lax nature of the crew. It seemed the cover of the storm had created a warm, sandy blanket for the crew to nuzzle into. Aboard such an armed warship, what did anyone need to fear?

Let’s find out.

Rhaif turned to Jace and Fenn, his words a breathless whisper lest he disturb the sentry’s slumber. “One guard.” His eyes settled on Fenn. “Better be quick about it.”

The navigator needed no such motivation.

Fenn straightened his back, strode around the corner, and marched toward the door. Rhaif bent down and spied again with his small mirror. He watched Fenn close upon the guard, a stout-limbed Bhestyan with a purple birthmark marring one cheek.

The guard stiffened at the sudden intrusion, casting a pinched gaze up and down Fenn’s finery. He clearly struggled to understand the arrival of this finely attired nobleman. The man shifted nervously, as if wondering if he should bow or question this intrusion.

He finally settled on the latter, but as a matter of caution, he decided to be civil about it.

“Sir, are you lost?”

Fenn’s response was far less courteous. He whipped the dagger from behind his thigh and thrust it through the guard’s throat. The blade severed any ability to shout. As the man slumped, gurgling, to the floor, Fenn grabbed his arm and hauled him aside.

Rhaif and Jace hurried forward to help.

Fenn passed the man over and crossed to the door. He grabbed the bar and heaved it off. He looked ready to toss it aside, but Rhaif hissed at him, reminding him that the clang of an iron bar across the planks might wake this sleepy ship.

Fenn obeyed and quietly set it aside.

Rhaif understood the navigator’s haste and fear. If his sister wasn’t here, then there was nothing more to be done. Rhaif left the guard, who bubbled his last breath, with Jace and ducked over to Fenn.

He lifted his mirror. “Let me crack the door and check inside first.”

Fenn ignored him and yanked the way open. He rushed across the threshold, drawing Rhaif with him. Inside, no lanterns glowed, but enough light filtered from the hallway to illuminate a row of five cells.

Fenn swept along them—then stopped, grabbed the bars, and sagged with relief. “Freya…”

A scuffle of hay sounded, along with a clink of chains. A hoarse, exhausted voice responded, “Who… Who are you?”

“Freya, it’s me, Fenn.”

A long silence followed, which only served to sharpen the woman’s voice. “It… It can’t be. What new cruelty is this?”

Rhaif understood her confusion. He imagined Fenn looked more shadow than substance in the gloom. Jace rectified this when he dragged the dead man inside, then fetched one of the lanterns from the wall outside.

The flare of brightness revealed all.

Fenn slumped down the bars. “Sister, what have they done to you?”

With his face lowered, she recognized him in turn. “Fenn, by all the gods…” Words rushed out of her. “How… How did you get here? Were you turned over? Our uncle will never adhere to any promises. You must know that.”

Rhaif turned to Jace, who was patting down the guard’s body after closing the door. “Any keys?”

Jace looked up with a wince. “No. Not a one.”

Rhaif nodded, accepting this. Thieving was never that easy. When it was, it usually meant trouble. He hurried over to Fenn, already reaching into his satchel. “Move aside. This tender reunion can wait another moment.”

Fenn shifted over, making room. “Hurry.”

“I wasn’t planning on pausing for a sip of wine.”

Rhaif dropped to a knee and fished out his pick and tools.

As he set to work, he did his best to ignore the sorry state of the prisoner. Fenn’s shock was well warranted. His sister, bloodied and bruised, knelt in filth. A chain secured one wrist to the wall. Next to it, another iron cuff hung loose. The reason was plain. Freya cradled a crooked arm to her chest. It was slung in a wrap made of her own ripped bodice.

Despite the pallor of agony, her eyes shone hard. “You must leave, Fenn. Escape while you can.”

“Not without you.”

Fenn turned and glared at Rhaif, urging him to hurry.

“I’ve almost got—” Then the stubborn lock finally released. “Done.”

Rhaif hauled the door open. Fenn rushed in first. He skidded on his knees and embraced his sister, mindful of her arm.

“Freya, how I’ve missed you.”

Rhaif hated to tear them apart, but he waved Fenn off. “She’s not going anywhere unless I can free that cuff from her wrist.”

Fenn nodded and scooted on his knees to the side.

Rhaif set to work again.

Jace brought the lantern closer. “We must be quick,” he warned, reminding them that a quarter-bell was never as long as one wished it to be.

Rhaif licked his lips and worked at a lock that was more rust than iron. The corrosion confounded his efforts.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s gone rusty.

He labored on. A trickle of sweat ran into one eye. He didn’t bother wiping it. Such delicate work required tender fingers, not sharp sight. Still, every beat of his heart marked their shrinking time.

Fenn’s breathing grew heavier and heavier.

Jace paced, crossing frequently to peek out the door, fearing discovery.

Freya simply hung her head, as if already accepting defeat.

“I have an ax,” Jace offered.

“The chains are too thick,” Fenn noted. “And the noise will be heard.”

Jace clarified his suggestion. “Better to lose a hand than a life.”

Rhaif cringed at this—but the small movement proved just enough to tweak his pick and break the lock. The cuff fell loose.

Fenn hauled his sister up, supporting her under her good arm.

Jace rushed to the door and swung it open—only to be knocked back as a bolt struck his shoulder. He spun around and crashed into the cell behind him.

Barked orders followed. “Show yourselves!”

Rhaif cursed his slowness. Llyra would’ve taken a finger after such a sloppy effort. And deservedly so. It had ruined them all.

He lifted his hands and stepped into view.

Jace groaned, voicing that he yet lived.

Outside, an armored figure towered in the passageway, his shoulder emblazoned with a quartermaster’s wings. He was flanked by a man on a knee with a crossbow. On his other side, a ra-knight guarded over a robed physik—who carried a tray crowded with splinting material and a glass bottle flushed white with poppy’s milk.

They must have come to attend to Freya’s injuries. Rhaif suspected this small act of kindness had not been ordered by her torturer but was a secretive act of mercy behind the man’s back. Still, upon arrival, the group had spotted the blood on the planks outside, heard the hushed voices inside, and closed off any escape.

Realizing this, Rhaif decided to forgive himself.

It wasn’t my slowness that ruined us.

It was mercy.

Either way, the result was the same.

Warning bells rang throughout the ship, rising louder and louder.

Rhaif hoped their other two companions were faring far better.

W ITH FLAMING TAPER in hand, Graylin froze as countless bells clanged with danger. At his knees, Hyck’s bomb had been shoved deep under the curve of a steel flashburn tank. Only its fuse protruded, a length of dusted cord.

Vikas loomed over him, staring across the hold. When they first got here, the space had been patrolled by four men, but he and Vikas had quickly dispatched them.

Now a stampede of boots rushed in from all directions. With no more time, Graylin lit the fuse and kicked its length under the tank. If he’d had more warning, he would’ve trimmed the fuse shorter.

“Let’s go,” Graylin ordered.

He set off with Vikas. If they couldn’t escape, he prayed their flight could lead the hunters astray, to distract them from the bomb. The weapon contained a potent alchymical mix that Hyck had concocted using flashburn, Panthean flitch, and black powder. The result produced a powerful blast.

As he and Vikas reached the door, shouts rose overhead, rising from gangways that circled the top of the storage hold. Not knowing if they’d been spotted, Graylin rolled out into the hallway and raced for the stairs.

But as he neared them, armored figures piled down, filling the hallway.

“Back,” Graylin urged, turning and colliding into Vikas.

More Bhestyan warriors crowded behind her. Graylin grabbed his sword’s hilt, but a huge figure broke into view. Graylin recognized a battle commander of the ra-knights.

“Enough!” the man barked. “We have your allies. Submit and mercy may be granted.”

Graylin noted the firm steel in the commander’s eyes, shining through the crossbars of his helm. Recognizing a lost cause, Graylin lifted his palm from his hilt. “I so submit.”

He tried not to flick a gaze toward the open door to the storage hold, but even this proved for naught. A crewman covered in oil, clearly a pumpman, appeared, escorted by another knight. The pumper carried Hyck’s bomb, its fuse severed in half.

“Found this hidden away,” the crewman said.

Graylin swallowed down his resignation, but he was not surprised. Any good captain knew saboteurs would strike for those tanks. The security of these massive barrels was a priority—whether in battle or not. To aid in their protection, an armed garrison was manned nearby.

It accounted for the swift response.

“Take them topside,” the battle commander ordered. “To join the others.”

Hands stripped him of his weapons. Vikas suffered the same. They were then marched at the point of a sword—several swords—up the stairs.

As they ascended, Graylin recognized it was his softheartedness that had led to this fate. The others must have been discovered, triggering the premature alarm. If not for their attempt to rescue Fenn’s sister, the mission might have succeeded.

Still, he could not blame them.

I agreed to it.

Finally, they reached a set of double doors that opened out onto the Spur ’s middeck. Sand whipped and scoured across the planks. Lanterns lit the gloom. A single firepot danced with flames.

The fiery light showed four figures on their knees, ringed by armed men.

The ra-knight commander marched Graylin and Vikas over to join them. The group looked sullen, suffering each in their own way. Jace leaned on Rhaif, his shoulder and upper arm drenched in blood. Fenn looked stricken and pale. The reason for his distress knelt next to him. The family resemblance left no doubt that the battered woman was his sister. Her arm lay broken in a sling of torn cloth.

As Graylin reached the others, a tall figure greeted their arrival. This one also needed no introduction. The rich attire, the wolf-trimmed cloak, but more importantly, the silver-eyed medallion of a Bhestyan high minister, all left no doubt this was Fenn’s traitorous uncle—Orren hy Pashkin.

The man smiled, but there was no amusement, only dark satisfaction.

“Commander Trask,” he intoned, “thank you for bringing these last strays to the fold. Now we can put an end to many matters.”

Trask gave the smallest nod, clearly unimpressed with the man.

“Foremost, of course…” Orren turned to Fenn and Freya. “What glad tidings to unite brother and sister at long last. Though, I suspect I’ll find more pleasure in this reunion.”

Graylin tried to salvage what he could. “You have your nephew, High Minister Pashkin. We bear the Kingdom of Bhestya no ill will. All we ask is to be allowed to leave.” He nodded to Trask. “There was word of mercy if we submitted.”

Orren turned to Graylin with one brow raised. “Mercy comes in many forms, does it not? To forgive a slight. To tend a wound. To comfort the sick. Even the mercy of a swift death.”

Graylin frowned.

“I will honor the commander’s word,” Orren said. “Granting one of the greatest mercies of all. The gift of life.”

Graylin suspected a trap.

Orren revealed it with a wave toward Rhaif and Jace. “Pick the one who will live. The other will be put to the sword immediately. Granted the mercy of a swift death. I’m only offering this boon because I’m feeling exceptionally generous with the return of my brother’s son. Choose now or both will suffer.”

More to delay this than from any hope of relief, Graylin pressed Fenn’s uncle. “And what of the rest of us? And our ship?”

“Your ship?”

“When the storm breaks will you allow it to leave unmolested?”

Orren exaggerated great sadness. “I’m afraid such a request comes too late. Thirty of Commander Trask’s fellow knights, his handpicked best, were sent out before the storm truly struck. They should’ve reached your vessel some time ago.”

Graylin turned to Trask, who acknowledged this with another nod, one more sorrowfully deep.

Orren drew his attention back. “But I will grant you one last mercy.”

Graylin faced the bastard. “What is that?”

“To bury your dead.”