The storm that had been threatening for days broke out in the darkest hour of that night. Great booms of thunder and furious lightning ushered in a slashing downpour. The lightning lit up the sky in streaky flashes and threw horrible shadows across her cabin. The wind built to a pitch and waves crashed over the bow.
The ship erupted in shouts as sailors rushed to take down the sails and do what they could to keep the ship on course. In her state of mind she had no impulse to get up and help. Lying in her small bed, Kitiara listened to the ship creak and groan under the punishing wind and waves.
She sat bolt upright. There was a sound at her door, a scratching and muffled knocking that was not part of the symphony of the storm.
Getting up, she bundled her blanket around her and crept to the door, opening it a crack. Strathcoe's face pressed heavily into the opening. He was trying to say something, but Kit could barely see him much less interpret his garbled sounds. When she opened the door wider, he fell into her cabin as if he were drunk. She turned to give him a piece of her mind, this bloated dunce who, all along, had been in on Patric's charade.
Strangely, Strathcoe had slumped over her bed, as if bending to look for something. She grabbed him by the shoulder and savagely twisted him around.
'What in blazes,' she began, then stopped in midsentence. He collapsed to the floor, and the look on her face turned from one of anger to shock. Quickly she bent down and cradled his neck with her arm.
Poor Strathcoe looked up at her for a moment, and his lips tried to move. Out of his mouth came not words but a bubble of dark red blood. Kit looked and realized his throat had been neatly and mortally slit. As she watched, his eyes fluttered shut.
Horrified, Kit dropped his head onto the floor, stood up, and swiftly donned some clothes. She looked around for a weapon of some sort. The only one available was one of the knives she had practiced with on deck. Strathcoe was unarmed and evidently had been taken by surprise while still in his night shirt.
Again Kit opened her door a crack and cautiously peered out into the corridor. From above deck, she heard loud yelling and the sounds of sailors struggling to save the ship. In the corridor, there was nothing, no noise and no person.
In this part of the ship were only three cabins: first hers, then as she headed farther away from the stairs, the captain's, then Patric's. She edged along the wall and neared La Cava's quarters. The door was shut, but she kicked it open and whirled inside, holding the knife up.
As her eyes swept the room, she realized her arm was shaking, and she had to make a strenuous effort to quell her nerves. Nothing. Nobody. La Cava was obviously up on deck, working to steady the ship through the storm.
An explosive noise made her start, but it was only the loudest thunderclap yet. The storm was not abating.
Back out in the corridor, she made her way slowly to Patric's cabin, afraid of what might lurk there. Crouching, she came around the corner to see that his door was slightly ajar. With one arm extended, Kit pushed his door open, and waited for some reaction. Again, nothing.
Crouching lower, so that she was almost on her hands and knees, Kitiara crept around and through the door, ready to spring or roll. Seeing nobody, she stood up. It was then that she noticed the outline of a body, covered with a bloody blanket, lying on the bed. Before Kitiara pulled the blanket off the head, she knew that it was Patric. He lay in a stain of blood that continued to spread from a wound in his chest. It was clear that he, like Strathcoe, had been taken by surprise and stabbed while he was sleeping.
Her senses buzzing, Kit went to the door and surveyed the corridor again; as before, she saw and heard nothing. Closing the door, she took a good look around Patric's room. There were no signs of a struggle, no evidence that might reveal who had slain Patric and Strathcoe.
She could see that Patric's immense traveling chest was still here, his pouches of belongings, everything that might tempt or lure a thief. For a moment, she sat down on the edge of Patric's bed, dazed and confused. Why would anyone sneak in and kill these two? What possibly could be the motive, if not robbery?
Her eyes drifted to Patric's face, livid with death but otherwise unmarked. He had probably died without waking. She felt only the merest twinge of pity for him.
For a moment, Kitiara thought of another young noble cut down in the prime of his manhood, several years before. She had never met Beck Gwathmey, but could he have been so very different from Patric of Gwynned?
Decisively, she stood and looked around. Patric's death meant that she had to leave the ship as soon as possible.
After her reaction to what Lurie had told her, she would be suspected in his killing. Kit had no desire to test the limits of La Cava's mercy.
Quickly she rifled the pockets of Patric's well-made clothing, finding identity papers that might be useful. These she stuffed into her blouse. Kitiara grabbed some of Patric's clothes and wadded them into one of his medium-sized traveling bags. She tugged and tinkered with the lock of his massive chest, then tried to break it open with the handle of her knife, but it barely showed a mark from her efforts. Happily, Kit found a small bag of gems in the heel of one of Patric's spare boots. This, too, she stuffed into the bag, which she finally tied over her shoulder.
Dropping to her knees, Kit found Beck's sword under the bed, wedged between a plank and the wall. She took it out, made sure it was padded with covering, and strapped it across her back.
Last, Kit went over to where Patric was lying, removed the necklace she was still wearing, and draped it on his body. Fair's fair, she thought to herself. And she didn't want that reminder of him and his mother.
Stealing out into the deserted corridor, Kitiara listened to the continuing chaos up on deck and realized that the time to act was now, when the storm was at its peak and people were distracted.
Kit took a deep breath and climbed the stairs as inconspicuously as possible. Men were dashing back and forth, tying ropes and shouting directions at each other. The ship was lurching violently, and Kit was thrown to the deck once or twice before she gained her balance.
Thunder crashed and lightning split the sky. The bolts illuminated, for a brief instant, La Cava at the helm. The captain screamed orders to a phalanx of his drenched crew.
Kit was correct in guessing that nobody would notice her in the midst of such turmoil.
Often stumbling, Kitiara made her way to the bow of the boat. The shoreline was, at most, ten miles away, and Kit thought she had a good chance of making it, even in the storm.
A glance at the sky told her that the thunderheads were breaking up. The worst was over.
Stripping off her boots, Kit stuck them in her pouch, then made sure that everything was tied tightly to her body. She climbed up on the railing and, without glancing backward, jumped.
The cold, turbulent waves hit her with the force of solid stone, nearly knocking her out. But before Kit's brain could go numb, she was already swimming, a speck in the water moving slowly but inexorably away from the ship.
'Man overboard!' was the last thing she heard.
Chapter 12
The storm sucked all the light and color from the sea. The waves looked black as they crashed down on Kitiara, again and again. She struggled to keep her head above water. Her arms flailed until they were numb.
Hours passed.
Weighted down by the sword strapped to her back, Kit could barely summon the strength to kick her legs. Her whole being felt waterlogged. Kit had swallowed so much seawater that she retched violently as the waves rolled over her, not for the first time that night.
Luckily, Kitiara had managed to grab hold of a small wooden barrel that whirled past her in the water. Its buoyancy was the only thing keeping her afloat now-that and her determination not to let go of it.
The storm raged much longer than Kit had guessed it would when she jumped overboard. She had long ago lost sight of the ship, but had no idea whether she was still pointed toward shore or how far away the shore was.
