was used to her teasing, and could usually ignore it, but failing those tests was still a sore point for him. It bothered him that he had allowed his pride to get in the way that day.
“Managing nature requires more subtlety and patience than hurling fireballs,” he said. “It’s difficult to turn animals—and birds—away from their true nature.”
“That bird’s true nature is to peck at you and call you names to get food?”
“Apparently.”
Arayevo skimmed down from the main mast and trotted over to join them, quirking an eyebrow at the parrot plucking up sunflower seeds from the deck. Kei finished and flapped back up to Yanko’s shoulder, making contented clucking sounds.
“Is this going to be the island with the treasure on it, Yanko?” Arayevo asked, smiling at Lakeo and at him. “I love exploring these places.”
“Did you also love having spears thrown at you on the last one?” Lakeo asked.
“I loved that none of the spears hit me.” Arayevo’s smile broadened.
“It’s possible this is the spot.” Yanko returned the smile and admired the way the wind tugged at her long black hair. What would it be like to stroke that hair? He had never dared, except perhaps as a little boy when she had been his babysitter. Then, he had likely been more interested in pulling at her long locks than stroking them. “Dak says he’s narrowed the likely islands down to six, and we’ve already investigated one.”
In truth, Yanko did not know how much of a clue Dak had as to the whereabouts of the stash that the seventy-years-dead Kyattese archaeologist turned “Mausoleum Bandit” had left behind. On the first two islands they had visited, Dak had been more interested in questioning the elders than in tramping through the jungles. He might simply be looking for first-person accounts because the books, maps, and old newspaper articles he had brought along lacked what he needed.
“The islands are interesting,” Arayevo said. “It’s too bad Minark offended the chief on that last one and we were driven off. The people seemed peaceful enough.”
“Until he started drooling on the chief’s daughter, yes. I—”
“‘Yevo!” a crew member with a spyglass called from the railing in the rear of the ship. “Did you see this?”
Arayevo frowned in his direction. The smuggler wasn’t looking toward the lush green island ahead of them, but instead to the rear of the ship.
Yanko’s stomach knotted with worry. Had the other Nurians caught up with him? The warrior mage Sun Dragon seemed to be able to track Yanko whether he was in sight or not. He ran to the back of the schooner, joining the man at the railing even before Arayevo did.
“See what?” Yanko asked.
The man pointed toward the water in the distance. Yanko searched for a ship on the horizon. With the sea calm today, visibility extended for a long way, but he couldn’t see anything except for the distant green smudge of another island they had passed. They were sailing through the Turtle Chain Keys to the northwest of the Kyatt Islands, and there were dozens, if not hundreds, of islands out here, so he doubted that had roused the smuggler’s interest.
“Closer,” the smuggler said. “Look at that tube.”
He lowered his pointing finger, and Yanko realized he wasn’t gesturing toward the horizon but toward the waters about fifty meters behind them. Something small stuck up above the surface. It did, indeed, look like a metal tube. For an instant, sunlight glinted off something—glass?—at the top of the object.
“What is it?” Yanko wondered.
At first, he assumed it was something stationary sticking up from the bottom of the ocean—the water must be growing shallower as they sailed closer to the island. Then he reached out with his senses, brushing past schools of fish, and found something unexpected underneath the water.
“There are people under it,” he blurted as he detected four distinct human presences. None of them were familiar, but that did not fill him with relief. Sun Dragon may have sent them.
“It’s a flugnugstica,” came Dak’s voice from behind them. “An underwater boat.”
He stood a few steps away, a stuffed rucksack on his back, a short sword strapped to his waist, and a repeating rifle in hand. Even if his size, musculature, and olive skin hadn’t promised he was Turgonian, the firearm and his factory-made cotton clothing would have implied it.
“That piece sticking up is the periscope,” Dak added. “They’re able to look all around on the surface with it.”
“An underwater boat. The Turgonians are following us?” Yanko slumped