a newspaper while Prior leaned back in his seat, hat tilted downward, lids not quite closed. Wylan couldn’t be sure if the man was sleeping or staring at him like some kind of drowsy-eyed lizard.
The boat was nearly empty at that hour. People dozed in the stuffy cabin or ate whatever dinner they’d packed, ham rolls and insulated flasks of coffee balanced on their laps.
Unable to sleep, Wylan had left the heat of the cabin and walked to the prow of the boat. The winter air was cold and smelled of the slaughter-houses on the outskirts of the city. It turned Wylan’s stomach, but soon the lights would fade and they’d be in the open country. He was sorry they weren’t traveling by day. He would have liked to see the windmills keeping watch over their fields, the sheep grazing in their pastures. He sighed, shivering in his coat, and adjusted the strap of his satchel. He should try to rest. Maybe he could wake up early and watch the sunrise.
When he turned, Prior and Miggson were standing behind him.
“Sorry,” Wylan said. “I—” And then Prior’s hands were tight around his throat.
Wylan gasped—or he tried to; the sound that came from him was barely a croak. He clawed at Prior’s wrists, but the man’s grip was like iron, the pressure relentless. He was big enough that Wylan could feel himself being lifted slightly as Prior pushed him against the railing.
Prior’s face was dispassionate, nearly bored, and Wylan understood then that he would never reach the school in Belendt. He’d never been meant to. There was no secretary. No account in his name. No one was expecting his arrival. The supposed enrollment papers in his pocket might say anything at all. Wylan hadn’t even bothered to try to read them. He was going to disappear, just as his father had always wanted, and he’d hired these men to do the job. His father who had read him to sleep at night, who’d brought him sweet mallow tea and honeycomb when he’d been sick with lung fever. As long as it takes people to forget I had a son. His father was going to erase him from the ledger, a mistaken calculation, a cost that could be expunged. The tally would be made right.
Black spots filled Wylan’s vision. He thought he could hear music.
“You there! What’s going on?”
The voice seemed to come from a great distance. Prior’s grip loosened very slightly. Wylan’s toes made contact with the deck of the boat.
“Nothing at all,” said Miggson, turning to face the stranger. “We just caught this fellow looking through the other passengers’ belongings.”
Wylan made a choked sound.
“Shall I … shall I fetch the stadwatch then? There are two officers in the cabin.”
“We’ve already alerted the captain,” said Miggson. “We’ll be dropping him at the stadwatch post at the next stop.”
“Well, I’m glad you fellows were being so vigilant.” The man turned to go.
The boat lurched slightly. Wylan wasn’t going to wait to see what happened next. He shoved against Prior with all his might—then, before he could lose his nerve, he dove over the side of the boat and into the murky canal.
He swam with every bit of speed he could muster. He was still dizzy and his throat ached badly. To his shock, he heard another splash and knew one of the men had dived in after him. If Wylan showed up somewhere still breathing, Miggson and Prior probably wouldn’t get paid.
He changed his stroke, making as little noise as possible, and forced himself to think. Instead of heading straight to the side of the canal the way his freezing body longed to, he dove under a nearby market barge and came up on its other side, swimming along with it, using it as cover. The dead weight of his satchel pulled hard at his shoulders, but he couldn’t make himself relinquish it. My things , he thought nonsensically, my flute . He didn’t stop, not even when his breathing grew ragged and his limbs started to turn numb. He forced himself to drive onward, to put as much distance as he could between himself and his father’s thugs.
But eventually, his strength started to give out and he realized he was doing more thrashing than swimming. If he didn’t get to shore, he would drown. He paddled toward the shadows of a bridge and dragged himself from the canal, then huddled, soaked and shaking in the icy cold. His bruised throat scraped each