man’s severed thumb, ‘me,’ he pressed it against his chest, ‘and Silf.’
‘S-Silf?’
‘“Salvation in secrets,”’ the rogue recited, ‘“forgiveness in whispers, absolution in quiescence.”’ He paused. ‘Silf.’
‘The Shadow.’ Rashodd uttered the name without reverence or fear for the God. Such things were reserved for the man before him. Quietly, he tucked his hands into his armpits, shivering. ‘A deity . . . a God for thieves . . . and . . .’ he paused to swallow, ‘murderers.’
‘Murderers,’ Denaos repeated, hollow. A smile, a wistful tug of the lips, creased his face for but a moment. ‘Isn’t that what we all are?’
‘It’s one thing to kill in battle, sir, it’s another entirely to—’
‘It is.’ The rogue nodded quietly, setting his dagger aside. ‘Perhaps that’s how Silf found His flock. Murderers require absolution, don’t they?’ His hand went inside his vest and came out with another knife, shorter, thicker, sawtoothed. ‘Or was He born to serve that need?’
‘You can’t be serious.’ Rashodd gasped at the blade. ‘I’ve told you everything!’
‘You might be lying.’ Denaos shook his head. ‘Silf has seven daughters. This is the second. We’ll meet more of them if you don’t speak.’
‘They . . . they wanted the priest for no good deed, I knew.’ Rashodd spoke with such squeaking swiftness it would have shamed him under other circumstances. ‘They spoke of mothers, queens and names of a Goddess no good Zamanthran has ever heard!’ His lips quivered. ‘Ulbecetonth . . . I am loath to repeat her name, even now. Ulbecetonth is who they worship, who they stole the book for! That’s all I know, I swear!’
Denaos paused, the dagger rigid in his hand. It appeared almost disappointed at being stayed, its sawtoothed grin pulling into a curving frown. Quietly, the tall man looked down, observing his reflection in the metal.
Rashodd allowed himself a brief moment of breath, free of saliva or bile. He was suddenly so cold, feeling as though all his warmth was dripping out of him, caking the insides of his arms. He needed something, a shirt, a blanket, anything to stem the loss of warmth coming out of him. Slowly, as his tormentor was absorbed in his own weapon, his eyes drifted towards the captain’s wardrobe in the far corner. There must be something there, he reasoned, something that would make him warm again, something to wrap about his hands.
‘You say this is all you know.’
There was a change in the rogue’s voice, a subtle inflection indicating thoughtfulness. It was a little thing, Rashodd knew, but enough of an alteration to send his head bobbing violently in a nod.
‘But you said, moments ago, that you knew nothing.’ His eyes lit up suddenly, wide and horrified. ‘You were lying.’
Rashodd was up in an instant, manacles rattling. He saw the dagger, but his eyes were focused on the wardrobe. He had to reach it, he knew, had to find something to stem the blood-loss, had to find something to save what remained of his warmth before this murderer took all of it.
There was a flash of black and Rashodd was upon the floor. The oil lamp swayed violently overhead, jostled. With every swing, it bathed the tall man in shadow, then in light, then in shadow. Every breath, the man was closer without moving. Every blink, the man’s dagger was bigger, brighter, smiling.
The lamp swayed backwards. There was shadow. The man was on top of him, straddling him.
‘No noise,’ he whispered.
The lamp swayed forwards. There was light. The man’s eyes were broad, wide and brimming with tears. The dagger was in his hand, firelight dancing from tooth to tooth.
‘Don’t you scream.’
After an endlessness of hearing waves rumble in the distance, the door finally opened with a whisper. Denaos’s appearance was just as quiet and swift, sliding out of the cabin and easing the door back into place with practised hands.
And there he stood, oblivious to Argaol’s stare, oblivious to anything beyond the knob in his grip and the wood before his eyes. The ship lulled, coaxed by the yawn of a passing wave.
‘How did it go?’ Argaol spoke suddenly, his voice strange and alien to his own ears after so much silence.
‘Fine.’
‘Fine?’
Denaos whirled about with unnerving speed. A smile played across his lips, his eyes were heavy-lidded and sleepy. Argaol cocked a brow; the man appeared more akin to someone who’d been ratting about in a private liquor cabinet than someone doing a job.
‘Rather well, in fact,’ he replied, licking his lips.
‘Ah.’ Argaol nodded, not bothering to