Yvienne laughed. She couldn’t help it; it was so absurd, after everything she and Tesara had gone through, that the Mederos name had come down to this. Mathilde’s expression changed at Yvienne’s strange outbreak.
“Oh, Mathilde,” she said, shaking her head. “I think it’s wonderful that you believe that story that my sister believed, that she sunk the ships when she was twelve years old by making magic out of her bedroom window. Someday I’d like to hear how you found that out. But the simple matter is–”
“What are you talking about?” Mathilde said. She glanced at the ginger man. Yvienne thought back to what Mathilde had said.
“What are you talking about?” she countered. How did Mathilde think the family sunk the ships?
“You expect us to believe in magic?” the ginger man said.
“Er… no,” Yvienne said. Mathilde flicked her pistol menacingly under Yvienne’s nose, and she realized that she needed to get to the point. “We didn’t sink the ships because the ships didn’t sink. Trune lied. He’s been stealing ships for decades, diverting the cargo to other ports, and buying off the captains. Sometimes the ships show up back in Port Saint Frey or in the Harbor of Ravenne, under a new name and flag, but usually they make it back home.” She held off on showing them the pages – she didn’t trust either of them to believe her, especially after the disappointing turn Mathilde had taken in her estimation.
The ginger man snorted, but something in the way Mathilde’s expression changed to a more considering and thoughtful look heartened Yvienne. The gun drooped a bit. She looked at the ginger man.
“Hmm. That makes more sense, actually.”
“Tildy, what?” the ginger man said. “You’re not going to believe her, are you?”
“I have proof,” Yvienne said. “I’m typesetting it now, and I plan to run a broadsheet for the morning. Trune’s going to leave town.”
“So, what happened to my brother?” Mathilde challenged. “The Guild gave us the seaman’s portion and a letter, and said that it was due to the fraud of the Mederos family. He’s never come home; none of them have. Are you saying that no sailor would come home to his wife and family? Do you even know what his death did to my parents?”
She didn’t want to have to say it, because if it came down to it, she didn’t know what Mathilde would prefer to believe – that her brother went to his death when his ship was sunk by magic or other perfidy – or he was shot and thrown overboard by a crooked captain and his first mate.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead, and it came out softly because she could see by the strain in Mathilde’s expression that the girl had loved hers dearly. “I don’t know what happened to him. I only know that his ship didn’t sink.”
As Mathilde thought through the options, her face crumpled and she burst out with a short cry. Then gathering herself, gripping the pistol, she said, “You’re coming with me. You’ll explain it to the magistrates.”
“The magistrates are in the Guild’s pocket,” Yvienne countered, trying to still her panic. “If I go to them, they’ll just throw me in gaol and the scheme will still go on. They’ve been doing it for years, Mathilde. You have to believe me.”
Mathilde looked indecisive and Yvienne felt hope spring alive. No more sailors have to die, she wanted to say, but held back. No use wasting a blatant attempt at sympathy, she thought, unless it was absolutely necessary. Let Mathilde come to the same conclusion on her own.
“That’s doing it up,” the ginger man said. With strong thumbs he cocked the pistols that had been thrown to him and aimed at Yvienne. “Trune isn’t going nowhere and you’re going to the Guild. You give me that proof you got.”
“Bastle, stop it,” Mathilde snapped. Bastle aimed one pistol at her and kept the other on Yvienne, who kept her hands in the air, eyeing them both carefully.
“No,” Bastle said. “I have my orders and they don’t include you siding with the girl. You’re supposed to help me nab her. That was the deal. Now, hand over your proof.”
It was staring right in front of him, or at least the half-typeset plate was. The type must look incomprehensible to anyone not used to reading it backwards, and if he couldn’t read at all… She gave him a stony look in return.
“Bastle,” Mathilde said. “What if she’s right?”
“It doesn’t matter if she’s right, she’s going up against the Guild,” he said. “Let them sort it out.”
“You mean let them kill me and imprison my family,” Yvienne said.
“Didn’t bother you none when you was in with them, did it?”
No, it hadn’t. She hadn’t thought about it like that, actually.
“I can stop them,” she said. “Then you’d never have to kowtow to the Guild or Trune ever again. No sailor will ever–”
“You can’t stop them,” Bastle said. “You’re just a girl, and I’ve got the drop on you. Cough up your proof. Now.”
A whooshing noise came up from nowhere and snuffed the candlelight, plunging the three of them into darkness.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
It wasn’t magic that blew out the candles. Rather, Tesara sneaked quietly into the old house through the open back door, and while she absorbed at one glance the fact that her sister was held at bay by Mathilde and the man with the ginger beard, she also saw old leather bellows hanging forlornly by the cold, ashy hearth. She picked them up and squeezed the handles. As much dust as air blew forth and the candle went out.
There was still enough light to see the indistinct shapes of all three people at the table and she could hear the difference in masculine and feminine alarm, enough to tell her where to step up and swing the bellows. She connected, and the man gave a pained grunt. There was a thud. Tesara swung again, but hit only air; the man was
