Page 10

HENRIK

T he last two hours had been agony.

Between worrying that she'd find nothing, she'd find something, or would never return, Henrik's composure nearly crumbled to ash the moment a breath of wind skittered by.

The wicked swirl of his thoughts spun constantly around this plan. Idiocy lined everything about his pursuit of Selma. His past was a lost cause. He had never heard of a soldat attempting to find his family, nor reuniting. Most of them remained satisfied with not knowing, or if they weren't, never spoke of it. Other soldats came from orphanages or the Shadowlands and proved scrappier than most because they lacked ties, not because they had family to begin with.

He'd given Britt the dragul, so why wouldn't she flee? Any self-respecting islander would take their advantage and throw away the rest.

Because, whispered his instinct, this is to her advantage.

The thought led to others that distracted him away from fear of Selma being eternally lost. Whatever Britt sought on Stenberg, she must assume she'd find it in the Archives. She’d agreed too quickly for it to not provide benefit. Britt cradled fire while sneaking around Stenberg, searching.

With that thought, a familiar visage appeared in the Archives doorway. Britt’s neutral expression and bland smile utterly confounded him. In the very small amount of time he’d known her, she flouted all emotions on her face. Something terrible must have happened.

After taking a painstaking amount of time with her slipper removal, she managed to drag out donning her shoes, removing her veil, balancing the bag on her wrist, tucking her slippers into a hidden pocket, and sedately crossing the fifty steps between them.

When she joined his side, his nerves frayed. "Take you long enough?" he sniped.

The scorn she leveled at him did the job of reprimanding him without words.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I just . . . I've been worried."

"About me?"

"Well . . . yes."

"Darling," she trilled. "A soldat with a soul. Who knew?"

His insecurities bled away as she smiled at him. That irrational surge of frustration swelled again, this time more confounding than ever, for he leveled it at himself.

Britt strode in the correct direction toward the soldat Quarter. Fists doubled at his side, he followed. Breaths restored his internal equilibrium. With as neutral a voice as he could manage—he had a feeling that he didn't execute it all that well—he asked, "What did you find?"

"Nothing."

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing so far. For all your island conquering and alliances, Stenbergians are rather unorganized. Have you noticed?"

"No."

"Not surprising. We're all blind to the truth before our eyes. Myself included," she added, as if making a great concession.

Henrik tightened his fingers until the bones threatened to crack. Clearly, he'd have to find a different approach to speaking with her, as common sense didn't shout loud enough.

"Britt, please explain to me what you did or did not find."

Using her name had a surprising effect. Her perpetual smile widened. "I will, thank you for asking so nicely. I can tell that doing so is hard for you. I found ship manifests, census records, a few women that didn't really like me, and a lot of obstacles."

"Obstacles?"

"Namely, my inexperience with the Archives."

"What were you doing for the last two hours if you have nothing to show for it but an idea of what they offer?"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he regretted the harsh question. Too intense, too revealing. If she dove to the end of his thought, she'd comprehend how much he cared. Caring was dangerous. Yet, he couldn't take it back. Admittedly, he wouldn't. Britt could handle a little more fear for her daily life.

The saucy look she shot him made it clear she didn't appreciate his demand. Henrik backed off, but only in his head. The question lingered as they strolled past a grocer stall. An apple flew toward him from within. He caught it, waved a hand to the grocer as thanks for the gift.

"For your beautiful lady!" the man called.

Britt blew him a kiss, and the man laughed until his belly quaked. Henrik schooled the ever-building fires of his righteous indignation. Did she have to command attention everywhere? Particularly that sort of attention?

She illuminated as she spun to face Henrik, setting a hand on his arm. "Is that a Stenbergian apple?"

The heat of her warm palm distracted him.

"What?"

"Is that a Stenbergian apple?" she repeated, more slowly this time. "Shiny. Purple. Slightly firm, but not egregiously so, with a stem out the top. You know? They grow on vines, from the jord.”

He lifted the little fruit, tinted with swirls of lightest blue around the edge of the royal purple rind. The entire thing fit easily in his palm, no more than a few bites big, with white spots along the top.

"This?"

"No, the other fruit he chucked at you."

"What do you think this is?"

"Looks like an apple to me,” she reasoned. “But I’ve never eaten one from Stenberg before. They’re so . . . quaint.”

"You've never eaten an apple?"

"Not from here! Can I try it?"

He withheld it to his other side. “After you give me more details about the Archives. You're dodging an answer. Why? Bad news? We can't find Selma? If there are census records, there must be a trail.”

She rolled her eyes. "You. Are. So. Emotional."

He stopped in his tracks.

"What?"

Her hands propped on her hips. "I'm not taking it back. You're the most emotional man I've ever met.”

“Emotional!” he thundered. “I’ve been called many things, but nev?—”

She smiled so prettily he balked into silence.

“Point made,” she sang, twirling a finger toward him. “And no, I'm not avoiding talking about what I found or didn’t find. I'm . . . soaking in the details and thinking about how to tell you what I observed. You flung me to the barracudas, thank you very much. I don't want to bore you with dumb trivialities."

The broader explanation nearly distracted him from the fact that she'd called him emotional . Not a soul in his life had ever applied such a descriptor to him or anyone he knew. Yes, he had emotions. Of course he did. Only fools discounted the truth. He controlled said emotions, however.

"Dumb trivialities?" he repeated.

She made a grabby motion with her hand.

With a warning glare that should have frightened her, but clearly didn't, he dropped the apple in her open palm. She studied it, flicked a piece of dirt off the edge, giggled to herself, then bit it with her eyes closed. Her dark lashes splayed, highlighting her elegant cheeks. Her lazy chewing, the way she sucked the juice out of the apple, and then feathered her eyes open would have leveled a lesser man.

Norr’s breath.

Did this woman have seduction, or innocence, down to an art? She either knew exactly what she was doing or she simply lived her life through the lens of enjoying every little thing. Confounding, either way.

"Delicious!" she cried. Her expression lowered as she tossed her gaze to the right, then the left, then to him again. Her thumb jerked to the side.

"Are you ready to go, or did you want to stand here all day?"

* * *

Britt unraveled a tale that should have bored Henrik, but her cadence, emphasis on details like disapproving frown and petite face and why do so many Stenbergians wear ivory? prevented it. She wound them together, holding his attention, as he couldn’t recall anyone doing before. She was his only path to Selma, which meant he had to accept her strange way of storytelling instead of recitation of facts, observations, and obvious next steps in her action plan. He accepted it, and . . . enjoyed it.

In her unraveling report of locating cached census records and struggling through ship manifests and unfiled import lists, he lost the sense that she hid something from him and began to understand the biggest obstacle they'd face.

Somewhere in her unholy amount of words existed a simple line of fact: policy. His Glory loved layers of security created by standardized practices, particularly with a place as valuable as the Archives.

That was Henrik’s enemy.

She paused for her first breath, so he took his opportunity to speak. “Unfortunately, I won't be able to change any of those details. The policy is the policy."

"I know."

He sent her a questioning glance.

She finished a delicate bite of apple and said, "I never asked you to fix the problem. I was just telling you what it was.” She pointed a finger to herself. “Perfectly capable, thank you.”

Stupidly, he’d expected complaints. Groans. Dramatic demands that he make it easier. His experience with women had limited bounds.

Very limited.

“Well . . . great.”

He capitulated with a hand, and she continued her exposition. At the end, exhaustion swept through him. This journey to find Selma had only begun, and was already riddled with obstacles. Buried in the layers of his mind had been a hope that she’d float out of the Archives and into his hands.

Foolish.

No, capricious.

Two things he’d never had the luxury of being.

Britt plucked seeds out of the fruit’s core and flicked them away. “That was that. I'll return in the morning, and plan to focus on the census. Any idea when Selma might have been born?"

He grimaced. "Not really."

Britt waved a hand, smiled at a little girl as she passed, and trailed next to his left arm as they turned toward the Quarters. Most people walked slightly behind a soldat. Britt showed no such compunction.

"The second floor had more people on it than the third floor,” she said. “Hopefully, in the morning, it'll be simpler."

"Hopefully," he echoed.

She stopped in the middle of the road, head cocked to the side. "Have you been in the Archives before?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why?" he countered as quickly.

She set a hand on her hip, considered, and shrugged. "Sure. Why would you have been inside? You're a soldat. Who needs to pursue academics when you're mastering weapons?"

He left the metaphorical question behind, surprised at her lack of judgment. Soldats were anything but uneducated simpletons. The training Captain required as much mental work from his trainees as physical. Grueling hours of philosophical, algebraic, and literary homework tightened his schedule as a young man, along with brutal physical training.

Besides, every fool that lived in the isles perfected some sort of weapon, so she wasn't being flippant.

“Is going berserk a real thing?” she asked.

“What?”

“You know . . . the phrase? Don’t let a soldat go berserk. ” She fluffed a hand in the air. If he held her wrists, would her mouth stop working? “Islanders say it all the time at our wharf, from all over the Isles. It’s rooted in truth, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Is it real?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth, loath to answer. “It’s . . . real. Going berserk is a state of mind in battles where all senses are heightened and you’re making fast decisions to keep yourself alive. It’s . . .” He paused, casting for a comparison. “Like when a painter stops eating and drinking because they’re consumed by their art?”

She quirked an eyebrow.

“Same thing.”

Except it’s not, her silence seemed to say. He wouldn’t normally entertain such a question, but considering the path to Selma relied on her cooperation . . .

“Interesting,” she said. “Have you gone berserk ?”

“No. I hope I never have to.”

“Ever seen it?”

“Once.”

“What happened?”

“He died,” he said flatly.

She kept silent.

Henrik ground his molars together as he walked.

"So," she said in a long-suffering tone that made his fury rise. As if she had been the patient one these last twenty minutes of getting to the point. "I did manage to gather some interesting documents and place them somewhere safe within the Archives. They'll receive my attention first tomorrow. Do you know when it opens?”

"Sunrise."

"Perfect!"

When they returned to the cottage, she squeaked, headed toward the bag of food on the table, and carefully set the handbag down. Denerfen’s head peeked out, sniffing toward a small loaf of sourdough. His wings folded onto his spine.

Henrik sank onto a chair and put his head in his palms, grateful for a few moments without her chattering voice.

It didn’t last long.

Britt sat on the chair next to him. He ignored her. When her warm palm landed on his shoulder and remained, he didn't brush it away. He should have.

"We'll figure it out, Henrik. I promise. We'll find Selma. It'll take me a little time to get my bearings in the Archives, but I will. I promise. I'm on your side."

Before he could correct her—he didn’t require comfort, just silence—she departed, swift as gossamer.

Here, gone.

Denerfen’s long neck rooted through the white bag as she withdrew pitas and cheese and dried grapes and golden apple rings. The dragul stood on the table, front legs elevated, sniffing as she plunked a piece of hard yellow cheese in front of him.

Henrik stood.

He had to get out of here and away from Britt. Take some deep breaths, prepare himself for an evening full of her incessant chatter. Maybe she’d fall asleep quickly. Outside of Einar, he'd never heard the words, I'm on your side, and had no reason to believe he ever would again .

Oh, how he loathed them.

* * *

The next morning, Henrik awoke before he opened his eyes.

He fully expected that Britt wouldn't be there. If she had any sense of self-preservation, she would have stolen away in the night. Whatever information she sought on Stenberg, she likely found while in the Archives yesterday. The promise of I'm on your side might be a loosely given placation to someone she viewed as a captor.

One could hardly call him a captor, considering she had her dragul, he fed her, she slept on his mattress while he slept under the table, and she could leave at any time. Besides, she came here on her own. She probably said encouraging phrases to everyone. That was the only thing that made sense.

He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes to wake up. They opened to the underside of the table. Sunshine wasn't the only thing illuminating his cottage. Off to the side, Britt’s legs shuffled around, giving him immediate pause. He couldn’t see her from the waist up, but he could hear her. Of course. Britt trilled under her breath, her hips shimmying in a dance that rotated them in wide circles.

He turned onto his side.

"Sorry to wake you," she chirped in a not-sorry tune. "I wanted to arrive at the Archives early today and keep searching, but didn't want to go hungry. I've set out some food for breakfast, if you want to join. You do eat breakfast, don't you?"

He groaned and closed his eyes.

"No."

"Really?"

"Yes."

She mumbled something about grumpy soldats while a clatter of dishes, a squawk of her dragul, and the hush of her sandals brought him further out of sleep. Denerfen flew in circles overhead, zipping around the cottage and shooting smoke. Every now and then, he’d land on her shoulder, then push off again with a squawk.

Maybe it would have been preferable if she had left in the night.

“Oh, a letter came for you this morning.” She tapped a finger on a small piece of paper, folded into an upright triangle on the table. “Looks official, with a wax seal.” She whistled low. “You must be important. Anyway, I’m heading out."

Was it his sleepy state, or did she seem oddly comfortable navigating Stenberg? He'd expected light paranoia and moderate suspicion of Stenberg's less-than-safe markets, through which she had to walk to find the Archives.

She paused in the doorway. "Did you need anything while I’m out?"

Her question amused him deeply. “If I did, how would you buy it?"

"Trade." She scoffed, as if it should have been obvious. "You act as if this was the first time I've ever snuck onto Stenberg. Ta!"

The sun vanished.

Almost a full minute passed before Henrik gathered his brain and made sense of what she said. She'd been to Stenberg before?

Scratch that.

She'd snuck onto Stenberg before?

Stenberg was an open island, though mostly at the market. To venture into buildings or other places, known guests had to fill out a form. Which, as he considered her comments on their Archives, seemed a bit ironic. Visitors had to prove that they had a reasonable reason to stay on the island. His Glory welcomed anyone to the wharf market for purchasing, however.

Kapurnickkians, in general, remained far from Stenberg unless an invitation was granted. Surely, that's what she meant. She snuck onto Stenberg as a Kapurnickkian without invitation.

Ignoring the temptation of food, he rolled out from underneath the table, dressed in short pants and an old shirt, and forced himself outside. Worrying about Britt wasn’t efficient. She'd be far safer from wandering sailors at the Archives, and he could avoid explaining her presence.

Henrik shook his head. Only a fool would hope for simplicity when Britt was involved. He may not know her well, but he knew that . One glance at the upright message drew his mind elsewhere entirely. He knew that wax seal.

The port authority.

Ossian was back.

* * *

Captain Ossian looked like a man that the sea had gobbled up, chewed around, and spit back out. Decades of sea spray and sunshine and disease pockmarked his ruddy face. He had eyes sharp as flints, whittled to tapered lines, in the happiest of circumstances. Nothing made him smile except the smell of sea foam, jord, and the jangle of coins in his pocket.

He wasn’t smiling now.

His salt-and-pepper sideburns bristled when Henrik entered the port authority’s office. Ossian’s impressive ship perched atop the splashing water in the outer bay. Smaller dories had ferried him and a few other sailors in. All of them waited, chained to posts, for the captain to be set free.

Henrik sat across from Ossian. To the port authority, Henrik said, “Remove his irons.”

Without question, the port authority—a reedy, silent type of man around soldats—hopped up, removed Ossian’s irons, and shuffled to the other side of the room with the clink of shivering chains.

“Out,” Henrik commanded. “And remove the irons from his crew. Tell them to take an hour at the Iron’s Brew Pub. The soldats will pay for one pint of grog for each man, and I approved the charge. The pub is expecting them.”

With a sigh as his only form of rebellion, the port authority obeyed. Ossian studied Henrik as the door closed.

“My apologies,” Henrik said. “I didn’t tell him to put you in irons, or your crew. The disrespect was not intended.”

Ossian leaned back ever-so-slightly, but his attention remained outside. He didn’t say a word to Henrik until the port authority had released his men. Once free, they scowled at the grimy, sea-rubbed windows, gave a rude gesture with their arms, and filtered across the street to the seedy tavern.

Once inside, Ossian barked, “I didn’t steal it.”

Henrik hid a smile.

“Where is the jord, Ossian?”

“I swear I didn’t steal it.”

“I believe you.”

Ossian paused, assessed. After a nervous twitch of his nose, he said, “While we were unloading, two men came to the port and took the twenty bags. They weren’t even sneaking around about it. Just took them. We protested, naturally.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “They didn’t care.”

Irritation filled Henrik like a cresting wave. “You didn’t think to stop them? Do you let any bastid take whatever jord they want?”

Ossian recoiled, as if Henrik struck him. “Now!” he cried. “There’s no reason to be insulting. You may have been on my ship for the last several months, but that doesn’t make us friends.”

“I never presumed.”

“They were soldats,” Ossian hissed, planting both hands on the edge of the table and gripping it. “I wasn’t about to stop them and neither were my men.”

Henrik’s breath stopped in his chest.

“Soldats?” he repeated.

Ossian nodded once. He wound a hand over his head in a swirl. “With the hair, the body type, the surly glare they teach all of you. Soldats. I spoke with them myself, and they said that His Glory sent them for it. I asked how many, and they said twenty, but to count the jord on the register anyway.”

“Why?”

“I tried to ask, but they threatened to take my teeth.”

Take my teeth meant they’d remove his position as captain, through both literally knocking out his teeth and scuttling his ship. Most captains flecked their teeth with gold, a privilege only for captains. The tradition spanned all islands.

“Did you press it?”

“Not even for you,” Ossian replied with his usual unflinching honesty. “They had weapons and my boys wanted to live. We let them go. Figured you’d come around if it was important enough.”

“Is that why you reported your manifests to the port authority and then hauled off so quick?”

Ossian said nothing.

“You also noted the twenty bag discrepancy on the paperwork,” Henrik said. “Why?”

Another shrug. Ossian tilted his head back, nose in the air. “Didn’t seem fair to you. After so many trips together . . . you’re decent,” Ossian grumbled. “A bastid and a problem, but decent. Other soldats aren’t.”

Henrik leaned his elbows onto his knees, parsing through what he could. Two soldats? Twenty bags of jord? A threat to remove his captain's status?

Nothing made sense.

“Where did they take the jord?”

“Shite if I know.” Ossian grunted. “They had a wagon, took it into the market. They’re rolling in it with miniature pigs, I hope.”

Henrik stood, the chair rattling behind him as he moved to the window and stared out. Up until the point Ossian said soldats , he hadn’t been entirely certain this whole affair was worth the trouble. Having involved his comrades, however . . .

“How much could soldats get for a bag of jord on the black market, Ossian?”

“Not sure, but at least a month’s salary.” Hastily, he added, “A sailor’s month salary, not you. You’re not . . .”

He trailed off.

Paid , Henrik wanted to finish for him. We’re not paid, simply taken care of and given license to kill those who threaten without as much questioning as others.

A raw deal.

“Thank you, Ossian.” Henrik spun around to face him. “Good luck with your next haul.”

Ossian paused. “That’s it?”

“What more do you want?”

“You’re not going to detain me?”

“Should I?”

Astonishment dropped Ossian’s chin. “You believe me?”

“I believe two men you thought were soldats took it,” he countered.

After months on the seas with Ossian, Henrik didn’t think the man would lie. Not to his face. The opportunity for Ossian to take advantage of Henrik had been ripe for too long. Why on the last run, on Stenberg, and for only twenty bags?

It didn’t follow.

Ossian swallowed. “I’m telling the truth,” he insisted.

Against his instinct, Henrik admitted, “I know.”

Further stymied, Ossian turned to go. As he spun, he stopped. “One of them, the soldat I spoke with? He had a really gruff voice. Gravelly. Broad shoulders, too. Not the kind of man to mess with. He had the soldat brand. I saw them when they turned and strode away with the jord.”

The soldat brand was the sign of whip scars along the back, curling across the top of the neck in wretched stripes. Ossian shrugged and vanished before Henrik changed his mind.

Henrik stared at the doorway where Ossian disappeared, lost in thought.