Wind Sabre’s hull creaked against the gale. She strained against her lines, moving faster than the twin engines ought to have been capable. They were caught in a tailwind, carried forward toward Nexus as though the winds shared their urgency. She heard the canvas above, the small sails thumping against the envelope. Tisker fought the wheel, his stance wide, his elbows bent and braced tight against his sides, his full attention given to keeping Wind Sabre on course.
Dug appeared at Talis’s side. Shirtless and wearing no less than six scabbards strapped to his hips, back, and arms. Those were just the ones she could see.
“You said Silus Cutter was dead,” Sophie shouted, running to join them. A light bearded ax hung from each hip.
There was hope in her voice. Anticipation. She thought the gale was his. She thought they were saved.
Talis didn’t answer. She deftly pulled a cotton string off her wrist and pushed her hair back, securing it out of her face.
The Veritors had planned to usurp power from the gods. The Yu’Nyun had beaten them to it.
A line started to flap in the wind, coming loose of its anchoring. Sophie scurried to secure it.
“Where’s Meran?”
Her arms occupied, Sophie tilted her chin upward. “I saw her climbing the lift lines. Captain, what’s happening?”
“She took the ring.”
Which didn’t even make sense. She didn’t need it, Talis had tucked it safely out of reach. She wouldn’t be influenced by—
“Where’s Hankirk?” Dug’s mind was on the same track.
Sophie’s eyes went big, and the rope slipped a bit through her fingers before she tightened her grip again. “Isn’t he in… ?”
Talis opened her mouth to cut the question short, to tell Sophie to go check, go be sure he was in the brig. But Sophie’s gaze twitched away, beyond Talis’s shoulder. Dug’s hands went to the hilt of a knife at his hip.
Talis felt as though her stomach had dropped into her boots.
She turned. Hankirk’s face was taut, his smile triumphant. His right hand was held up at eye level, proudly displaying Lindent Vein’s pearl signet ring. He kept it aloft longer than necessary. He wanted her to see it. To see that he’d won after all.
“You could have joined me,” he said. His voice was thick, impassioned.
Talis raised her hand to her hip. Her holster was there but she hadn’t gotten around to loading her pistol into it. It was still stowed in her cabin.
He laughed. She’d never heard such an awful, cruel laugh. Not from him. Not from the assassins at Jasper’s door. It went beyond greed and pride. It was larger than a single man’s desires. There was an echo of Meran in there.
Dug was at her side, his muscles tensed, but she could read his posture. He was ready to attack but wouldn’t move without her signal. Either he’d learned his lesson about being short-fused or she’d earned his trust back. She tried to find comfort in that.
It wouldn’t be a quick fight, but Hankirk only had the ring. Might hurt if he punched her, but she’d have a knife in his stomach before he could turn Meran on them. Finally clean up the mess she’d made by letting him live the three—no, four—chances she’d had to see him off.
She reached for the sheath on the back of Dug’s belt, pulled a vicious curved blade free, and leaped.
Hankirk fell backward and she sliced the forearm he brought up to shield his head and neck as she followed him to the deck. She felt the bone through the scimitar’s grip as the blade sliced into it and stuck there.
His yell was sharp with pain and surprise. At least his voice sounded mortal again. She grabbed his right hand, pinning it by the wrist to the deck, and got her knee down on it. The ring knocked back against the wood. It was still a threat as long as he was wearing it. She leaned in, pressing the blade deeper into his arm with both hands. Blood ran from the wound and dripped across his cheek.
Sophie and Dug were there, weapons out, waiting for Talis’s signal. She spared a moment to resolve that everyone would carry pistols on watch from now on.
Hankirk’s eyes were unfocused as he looked up at her.
“You lack the vision to see this through,” he said, his voice strained.
Talis spat in his eye.
Not very eloquent, but she’d pushed aside the part of her mind responsible for coming up with quips.
“Captain.” Dug’s voice was a warning. His hand was on her shoulder, firmly tugging her backward.
“Let me finish this, Dug.” She pressed harder.
But Dug moved his hand to her head and attempted to turn it. She fought it, instinctively, but even with adrenaline running electric through her body, she was no match for Dug’s strength.
She acquiesced before he hurt her, though she pushed harder on the scimitar buried in Hankirk’s forearm as she let Dug turn her gaze upward.
Meran stood on deck, her legs squared, fists at her side, wind whipping at her pant legs, jacket, and loosened hair.
Hovering several feet beyond their railing, baring fangs in a feral, hungry smile, Onaya Bone regarded the scene.
Chapter 37
“You have brought me my weapon,” spoke the goddess. Her voice was richer in person than it had been on screen back at the temple. It echoed off the deck, coursed through the engines, rattled inside Talis’s head.
Onaya Bone moved toward them, reducing in size until she could fit on the deck, though she was still larger than life, taller than Dug and Scrimshaw by a few heads. An elegant golden gown flapped about her in the high winds, wrapped about the torso with strings of turquoise beads. Her feet were shod in heavy-soled boots, covered in steel plates and held fast with shining golden buckles. Her black feathered mane flashed iridescent shifts of color as the winds played it about her head.
It took a moment for the shock to fade.
