to look like a kidnapping—that much Mathew had told her. Yet as far as she could tell, there was no way that Emperor Henrick could find out where Safi had been taken.
So she tipped up her chin—exposing her throat all the more.
“Your strategy is a poor one, Prince, for if there are people following me, I have no incentive to tell you.”
“Then I guess I’ll kill you.”
“Do it,” she taunted. “Slit my throat with your still-sheathed dagger. I’d love to see how you manage that.”
Merik’s expression didn’t waver. Nor did the dagger. “First tell me why the Carawens were after you.”
The monk’s shoulders stiffened, drawing Safi’s eyes to her white-cloaked back. “I have no idea, but you could ask that Carawen over there. She seems to know.”
“She doesn’t.” Merik’s voice was sharp with impatience. “And you would do well to address her properly. She is Monk Evrane, sister to King Serafin of Nubrevna.”
Now, there was some useful information. “So if Monk Evrane is the king’s sister,” Safi mused, “and the king is your father … Why, Monk Evrane must be your aunt! How nice.”
“I’m surprised,” Merik said, “it took you so long to figure this out. Even a Domna of Cartorra should be well-educated.”
“I never cared much for my studies,” she volleyed back—and Merik snorted.
It was a laughing snort that seemed to catch him by surprise—and seemed to annoy him too, for he abruptly schooled his face and withdrew the sheathed blade.
Safi cracked her jaw. Stretched her shoulders. “Now that was a fun standoff. Shall we do it again tomorrow?”
Merik ignored her, and with a free hand, he yanked a cloth from his coat and wiped down his engraved scabbard. “On this ship, my word is law, Domna. Do you understand? Your title means nothing here.”
Safi nodded and fought the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes.
“But I am willing to offer you a deal. I won’t lock you in chains if you promise to stop behaving like a feral dog and instead behave like the domna you’re supposed to be.”
“But Prince”—she lowered her eyelids in an indolent blink—“my title means nothing here.”
“I will take that as a ‘no’ then.” Merik turned as if to leave.
“Deal,” Safi spat, seeing it was time to fold. “We have a deal, Prince. But just so you know, it’s a cat.”
The prince frowned. “What’s a cat?”
“If I’m going to be anything feral, it’ll be a cat.” Safi bared her teeth. “A mountain lion, of the Nubrevnan fish-eating variety.”
“Hmm.” Merik tapped his chin. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of such a beast.”
“Then I suppose I am the first.” Safi waved dismissively at him before dropping back to Iseult’s side.
But Evrane lifted a halting hand. “You are too dirty to be here, Domna.” Her voice was husky, yet not unkind. “If you really want to help your friend, then you will get cleaned. Merik, will you see that she is taken care of?” She glanced at her nephew—who was already aiming for the doorway.
“It’s Admiral Nihar,” the prince corrected. “At least while we’re at sea, Aunt Evrane.”
“Is that so?” the monk asked calmly. “In that case, it is Monk Evrane. At least while we are at sea.”
Safi had just enough time to see Merik’s expression turn sour before the prince was out the door—and Safi was scrambling after him.
* * *
Climbing the ladder topside proved harder than Safi anticipated—what with her body sore and the relentless onslaught of an early morning sun. Hissing and rubbing her eyes, she stumbled across the stone-scoured deck. Her legs were numb from disuse, and as soon as she got a solid grip on the wood, the ship would groan and heave the other way.
The prince walked just ahead, deep in conversation with his first mate, Kullen, so Safi angled a hand over her eyes. Learn your terrain. There was little to see beyond rolling waves—only the eastern horizon had a craggy spit of land separating the sea from a cloudless sky.
Safi scooted around sailors. They scrubbed the wood, scurried up the riggings, heaved and towed—all to the hoarse bellows of a limping older man. Though some stopped to salute their prince, not all of them paused. One man in particular caught Safi’s attention, her witchery curdling at the sight of him—as if to say he was untrustworthy. Corrupt.
“’Matsi-loving smut,” the man snarled as Safi passed.
She grinned at him in return, making absolutely certain to memorize his square-jawed face.
Soon she had stumbled to the ship’s stern (she counted thirty paces) and