“As a distraction?” asked Lila.
He shook his head. “A message. That they won’t be needing them anymore, that once they’re done killing everyone aboard and dumping the bodies in the sea, they’ll take their victims’ boat instead and sail away.”
“Huh,” said Lila.
“Exactly.”
“Seems like a waste of a perfectly good ship.”
He rolled his eyes. “Only you would mourn the vessel instead of the sailors.”
“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “the ship certainly didn’t do anything wrong. The people might have deserved it.”
II
When Kell was young and couldn’t sleep, he’d taken to wandering the palace.
The simple act of walking steadied something in him, calmed his nerves and stilled his thoughts. He’d lose track of time, but also space, look up and find himself in a strange part of the palace with no memory of getting there, his attention turned inward instead of out.
He couldn’t get nearly as lost on the Ghost—the whole of the ship was roughly the size of Rhy’s chambers—but he was still surprised when he looked up and realized he was standing outside Holland’s makeshift cell.
The old man, Ilo, was propped in a chair in the doorway, silently whittling a piece of black wood into the shape of a ship by feel alone, and doing a rather decent job. He seemed lost in his task, the way Kell had been moment before, but now Ilo rose, sensing his presence and reading in it a silent dismissal. He left the small wooden carving behind on the chair. Kell glanced into the small room, expecting to see Holland staring back, and frowned.
Holland was sitting on the cot with his back to the wall, his head resting on his drawn-up knees. One hand was cuffed to the wall, the chain hanging like a leash. His skin had taken on a greyish pallor—the sea clearly wasn’t agreeing with him—and his black hair, Kell realized, was streaked with new bright silver, as if shedding Osaron had cost him something vital.
But what surprised Kell most was the simple fact that Holland was asleep.
Kell had never seen Holland lower his guard, never seen him relaxed, let alone unconscious. And yet, he wasn’t entirely still. The muscles in the other Antari’s arms twitched, his breath hitching, as though he were trapped in a bad dream.
Kell held his breath as he lifted the chair out of the way and stepped into the room.
Holland didn’t stir when Kell neared, nor when he knelt in front of the bed.
“Holland?” said Kell quietly, but the man didn’t shift.
It wasn’t until Kell’s hand touched Holland’s arm that the man woke. His head snapped up and he pulled suddenly away, or tried to, his shoulders hitting the cabin wall. For a moment his gaze was wide and empty, his body coiled, his mind somewhere else. It lasted only a second, but in that sliver of time, Kell saw fear. A deep, trained fear, the kind beaten into animals who’d once bitten their masters, Holland’s careful composure slipping to reveal the tension beneath. And then he blinked, once, twice, eyes focusing.
“Kell.” He exhaled sharply, his posture shifting back into a mimicry of calm, control, as he wrestled with whatever demons haunted his sleep. “Vos och?” he demanded brusquely in his own tongue. What is it?
Kell resisted the urge to retreat under the man’s glare. They’d hardly spoken since he had arrived in front of Holland’s cell and told him to get up. Now he said only, “You look ill.”
Holland’s dark hair was plastered to his face with sweat, his eyes feverish. “Worried for my health?” he said hoarsely. “How touching.” He began to fiddle absently with the manacle around his wrist. Beneath the iron, his skin looked red, raw, and before Kell had fully decided, he was reaching for the metal.
Holland stilled. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” said Kell, producing the key. His fingers closed around the cuff, and the cold metal with its strange numbing weight made him think of White London, of the collar and the cage and his own voice screaming—
The chains fell away, manacle hitting the floor hard and heavy enough to mark the wood.
Holland stared down at his skin, at the place where the metal cuff had been. He flexed his fingers. “Is that a good idea?”
“I suppose we’ll see,” said Kell, retreating to sit in the chair against the opposite wall. He kept his guard up, hand hovering over a blade even now, but Holland made no motion to attack, only rubbed his wrist thoughtfully.
“It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it?” said Kell. “The king had me arrested. I spent some time in that cell. In those chains.”
Holland raised a single dark brow. “How long did you spend in chains, Kell?” he asked, voice dripping with scorn. “Was it a few hours, or an entire day?”
Kell went silent, and Holland shook his head ruefully, a mocking sound caught in his throat. The Ghost must have caught a wave, because it rocked, and Holland paled. “Why am I on this ship?” When Kell didn’t answer, he went on. “Or perhaps the better question is, why are you on this ship?”
Kell still said nothing. Knowledge was a weapon, and he had no intention of arming Holland, not yet. He expected the other magician to press the issue, but instead he settled back, face tipped to the open window.
“If you listen, you can hear the sea. And the ship. And the people on it.” Kell tensed, but Holland continued. “That Hastra, he has the kind of voice that carries. The captains, too, both of them like to talk. A black market, a container for magic … it won’t be long before I’ve pieced it all together.”