front of the ship Ramson had inspected the day before. Ramson stood in the shadows of another large galley. He counted about a dozen of them.
A long whistle sounded in the night, followed by two short ones, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. It was a code that the members of the Order had used.
Daya had told him, back when they’d first met, that she suspected Alaric Kerlan still had men waiting for him in Sapphire Port. Now, watching as the gangplank was lowered and the men stole onto the ship, Ramson began to have an inkling of just how deep his former master’s secrets ran.
Ramson waited a while more, counting the seconds to himself. It was well over five minutes by the time he heard footsteps again. As the men began to make their way back down the gangplank, Ramson listened to their low conversation, wondering if he would recognize their voices. Bogdan had to be here, somewhere.
The sound of the Order members’ quiet murmurs drew farther away, and silence fell again. It was now, or never.
The ship was bobbing up and down more violently as he approached it, the waves stirred up by the wind and approaching storm. Ramson shinnied up the anchor line, his hand slipping several times as the ship tossed about. He paused at the railing, peering over.
The deck appeared to be completely deserted. Still, he took caution as he hauled himself on board, scanning the blur of shapes to catch for any movement.
When he found nothing, he made for the hatch. This time, it had been left unlocked. Anyone else might have assumed it was out of carelessness, but Ramson had learned to never make assumptions when it came to Alaric Kerlan.
He pressed his ear against the trapdoor and listened.
And then he heard it. At first he thought it was the wind, but as he listened, the sound registered as human: a faint keening, like a high-pitched moan, coming from belowdecks.
Daya had said she’d heard screaming.
Ramson lifted the hatch a crack, and then all the way. From his hips, he drew his smallest knife—an oyster shuck he’d stolen from the Blue Fort—and slipped in.
The air was still dank, and from the shapes of the crates, it seemed as though nothing had moved. Ramson frowned as he looked around again, slowly. The moaning sounds had stopped, but as he cocked his head to listen, he couldn’t hear the sound of anyone alive in this space.
His eyes caught on something—a slight shift to the outline of shadows he’d seen just yesterday. There. One crate of searock had been pushed aside. And as Ramson stood, trying to figure out what it was about this place that looked so wrong to him, a realization hit him.
The space from floor to ceiling of this hold was far too narrow for the hull of the ship. He could have smacked himself for not seeing it sooner; back at the Naval Academy, he’d studied plans of ships that had secret second layers to their holds, often to carry illegal goods.
He’d just taken two steps forward when he heard the faint rattle of chains, the creak of wood as the gangplank was lowered again outside. The thud of wood, and then footsteps.
Shit. He hadn’t expected them to return so quickly.
Ramson scurried to a corner, where the crates were piled high on top of each other. With several light steps, he scrambled up and flipped himself behind the boxes. He crouched there, listening intently.
Footsteps on the deck, muffled voices—and then the hatch swung open.
“…arriving later tonight?” an unfamiliar woman’s voice was saying in Cyrilian.
“Oh, yes,” came a second, lilting voice, and Ramson’s insides froze—one that he would recognize anywhere, that haunted his nightmares. “The plan is in motion. The siphons are ready for export. They’re expecting another wagon of Affinites tonight.”
Ramson knew his old master’s mannerisms so well that he could hear the smile in Alaric Kerlan’s voice. The clack of heels on the ladder rungs, and then they were belowdecks, so close that he could hear the rustle of their clothes. The sound of a match being struck, and a moment later, lamplight blazed to life. Ramson looked at the shadows cast on the wall behind him. He counted five people.
“Some of the test subjects are not doing so well,” the female voice said.
A pause steeped in displeasure. “Well,” Kerlan said, “let’s see. Our Bregonian ally seems to have used it quite successfully.” He switched to