cargo hold, along with two goats and a crate of chickens. Sorcha visited, but found two crew members tending to them, one carefully grooming the mare while a slight young girl fed Shedryi lumps of sugar. The old devil rolled one eye at her as if in embarrassment but snuffled up the remaining sugar like a child’s pony.
Apart from watching over Merrick, Sorcha found herself next to useless on the ship, and while the same had been true on the first vessel, somehow this was different. The Pretender watched her but did not approach, probably still annoyed about her little slipup. She was very glad when the coastline moved from ragged cliffs to undulating tundra and Ulrich itself came into view.
Joining the throng on the deck, Sorcha discovered Ulrich was just as bleak as she feared. She’d seen many little towns just like it, huddled on the edge of the Empire, scraping an existence out of the sea. It was low-lying and gray, and the only thing to recommend it was the deep harbor and wharf jutting out into the sullen ocean. To the right of the jetty, a long stretch of sandy beach continued the half-moon shape of the bay.
The relief of the crew around her was palpable. Merrick wriggled his way past them to stand at her side. “I’ve never been so glad to see dry land.” He rubbed his darkly circled eyes wearily and leaned on the gunwales.
A twinge of sympathy disturbed her own dark thoughts. “You’ll be able to rest in the Priory.” She pointed to the one hill that looked above the town. “I suppose that will be it.”
Priories were usually ramshackle affairs, yet this one looked to be the proudest building in the town; with its white stone and parapets, it almost resembled a fortification.
Both Deacons glanced at each other with raised eyebrows.
Nynnia had followed in Merrick’s wake and, seeing their confused expression, laughed. “Everybody is surprised at Ulrich Priory. It was built as part of the defenses of Felstaad, hundreds of years ago when this area was being fought over.”
“Who would war over this place?” Merrick wondered aloud.
Sorcha knew enough of her history to answer that one, before Nynnia could impress him. “This area used to be rich with minerals, gold and silver in particular. But those were mined out over a hundred years ago.”
“Now there is only the fishing”—Nynnia tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear—“and no one is prepared to go to war over herring.”
“Not even good herring.” The Pretender’s voice made Sorcha jump a little. She didn’t turn her head to acknowledge him as he continued. “But it will suit us well enough to beach
“Careened?” Nynnia asked.
“It means scraping all the barnacles off the ship’s arse.” Sorcha turned and beamed at the girl. “Useful if you want to keep out of the way of the Imperial Navy.”
She could feel Merrick tensing at her side. Diplomacy wasn’t her best skill—she’d never really needed it before. She let the Sensitives deal with all of that.
Raed grinned as his first mate handed him papers. Sorcha glanced at them, but one look at the Captain’s face told her that he wasn’t about to explain. He leapt lightly off the ship, before the gangplank could be added, and strode in the direction of the harbormaster’s building at the end of the quay.
“You’d better go after him, Chambers.” Sorcha could feel her lips settling into an unhappy line. “You made the deal, so go and make sure no little geist creeps up on him.”
Not as limber on board as the Pretender, her partner scrambled to obey.
“You could be nicer to Merrick,” Nynnia said at her side, and her voice seemed stronger somehow. “He is trying very hard to be a good partner.”
“Oh, really?” Sorcha gave her a wicked grin. “And how can he do that, pray tell, when he is also trying very hard to please you? Or have you not noticed his attentions?”
The girl turned bright red for an instant, and then straightened up, tucking her shawl around her and trying to look calm. “You, Deacon Faris, are a very uncomfortable person to spend time with.”
She gave a short laugh, thinking of partners past and present. “That’s what they say.”
Merrick and the Captain returned in short order. Raed looked very pleased with himself. He stood at the end of the gangplank. “Everything is arranged. Let’s start unloading.”
The tension seemed to go immediately out of the crew.
“All passengers”—Aachon’s stress on that word was hardly friendly—“should now disembark.”
It felt good to be on dry land. Merrick stood at her side while the Breed were carefully led out of the hold and onto the quay. Shedryi and Melochi looked as well-groomed as they would have been back at the Abbey, but they would need rest and care to recover their strength. The mare seemed to have fared better than the stallion. Shedryi would bear scars on his fine black hide for the rest of his life. Even if there had been saddles available, Sorcha would not have advised they be ridden.
Merrick had taken Melochi from the quay worker, and was talking in a low voice to Nynnia on the other side of the horse. He was not that far away, yet he was using some Sensitive trick to conceal his words. Feeling along the Bond brought Sorcha a sensation like a slap. That boy was getting decidedly uppity, considering how long they had known each other. One rescue and suddenly he was in charge. She clenched her teeth on a growl of displeasure.
“We should get to the Priory,” Sorcha snapped, taking hold of the stallion’s bridle and patting his tall, arched neck. Raed was standing a few feet away, shouting directions up to his crew as they bustled about like ants. “That means you too, Your Highness.”
A muscle twitched under the narrow strip of his short beard. “I have duties to attend.”
“Certainly. But we need to report in,” she replied sweetly. “And as such, your geist protection will be out of range. Is that all right with you?”
She found something very satisfying in the angry look he shot her. However, there was nothing he could do; either resist and be open to the unliving, or follow along like the horses.
Sorcha turned Shedryi’s head up the hill toward the impressive Priory and led the way through the town, ignoring the Pretender’s glare. Merrick hung back, still jawing away with Nynnia. Apart from the looming castle above, it was an unimpressive place. Little gray stone buildings low to the ground indicated that in winter this was a dire town. Nets were strung everywhere, and presumably the fishing fleet was out today, which explained the lack of other ships in the harbor. A few citizens were about, wrapped up tightly in wool or, in some cases, oilskin.
Their cloaks and the Breed horses marked Sorcha and Merrick out as Deacons, so eyes did follow them, but there was something very strange about that. She’d been to towns with plagues of unliving, and in every single one of them the Order was greeted like delivering heroes. Naturally, people rejoiced in the arrival of Deacons to clear up their pesky unliving problems.
Not the residents of Ulrich, however—they actually seemed to flinch away. No one ran up to the Deacons and thrust a squalling child at them, begging for them to protect it. Not a single person clutched at their cloaks howling for salvation. One old man, sitting in front of his house mending a net, actually frowned at Sorcha, dropped his needle and hurried inside.
“I’m beginning to feel we are not the most popular new arrivals,” Sorcha whispered back to her partner. “Do you See anything?”
Merrick caught up with her, so that the horses were between them and prying eyes. He was impressive; even she was not able to tell just by looking at him when he was using his Center.
“Nothing,” he whispered back after a moment. “Nothing unliving, that is. This place reeks of anger, not fear. And it is directed at us.”
“Ungrateful idiots,” Sorcha muttered.
“And I thought Deacons were usually greeted with more fanfare.” The Pretender had pressed his way to the front, and the smug note in his voice made Sorcha even less happy with the situation. Walking between them, he actually threw an arm over each of their shoulders as if they were comrades. “Whatever have you folk of the Order been up to?”
Sorcha tried to shrug his arm off, rather unsuccessfully, as Shedryi had recovered some vigor and was
