THEY LOCKED HANALEI IN HER CABIN FOR THE rest of the day and night. Long hours stretched before her. Sometimes she paced, which was unsatisfying in this small box of a room. Sometimes she lay on the mat, staring at the wall and wondering How am I to get off this ship? One bright spot: no one had come to remove her washtub. It remained shoved against the door, offering a small measure of comfort and safety.
At times, her pacing was more of a stagger, for they had sailed straight into the unwelcoming arms of a typhoon. The Anemone rocked wildly. It dipped and swayed, shuddered and creaked. From the shouting above deck, she suspected one or two dragoners had fallen overboard and been lost. Mercifully, they must have caught the typhoon at her tail end. The waters and winds were violent, but brief, and by the time Hanalei settled into a troubled sleep, the worst of the storm had passed.
Occasionally, however, sleep came with its own storms. She dreamt of Princess Oliana, and an evening lesson. And poison.
“Kalama,” Princess Oliana had prompted from across the table. She wore a long, green dress without sleeves. Tattooed on her arm, from shoulder to elbow, was the image of a sleeping fruit bat.
Kalama was too simple, Hanalei thought. A five-year-old would know the answer. She was eight. “Kalama is a trickster god. The goddess of deception and chaos. There’s an island in the east named for her.”
“And?”
“And it’s said she’s the creator of earthquakes, typhoons, great waves, and . . .” Here, Hanalei had to stop and think about it. “Volcanoes?”
It had become their ritual when it was just the two of them. The lessons of the day would continue into supper. Hanalei had served as Princess Oliana’s page for three years. A great honor. They sat at a table by an open window on the island of Garapan. Three weeks had gone by since they had begun their journey, visiting the various villages and islands of the Tamarindi archipelago. Tomorrow they would start for home.
“Yes. Volcanoes. Very good. And whom does Kalama favor?” Princess Oliana brought her spoon to her lips. She was, in Hanalei’s opinion, the most beautiful person on Tamarind. No, the entire Nominomi. Her face was narrow, with sharp, slashing cheekbones, reminding Hanalei of the great statues that stood on the southern edge of the island. The scar on Princess Olli’s right cheek resembled a fishhook. She refused to have it tended to, ignoring the unguents and lotions prepared by royal healers. The scar reminded her of her husband, she would say, and of the battle that had wounded her and cost him his life. She would not erase such a memory. Her hair fell to her knees, waves the color of lava stones, polished and shiny. One day, when Hanalei was eighteen and not eight, she would have hair that long and that shiny.
“Kalama favors those of bad character,” Hanalei answered. “Mostly thieves, pirates, spies, and Lady Iosefina.”
Princess Oliana lowered her spoon. “Lady Iosefina?”
“For breaking Uncle Isko’s heart. And for going away. Sam called her a villain.”
“Ah,” Princess Oliana said. Samahti was her son. “Sam is very loyal to Isko. But we mustn’t blame Lady Iosefina for marrying another.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was not done out of spite,” Princess Oliana told her. “Or unkindness. We love whom we love, Hanalei. The choice is rarely our own.”
“But Uncle Isko is lord protector, and he’s not here because he’s sad. Who’s going to protect us?”
Princess Oliana laughed. “Are we not strong women, able to protect ourselves?” She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a cloth. “Even if we were not, we are surrounded by guards, including Captain Erro, my dear. They have machetes.” She returned the cloth to her lap. “Don’t worry about Isko. He’ll come home when he’s ready. Now, I believe you have Kalama well in hand. What about Olifat?”
Hanalei broke off a piece of sweet bread and dipped it into her utu soup, which she had to force herself to eat. She did not like the utu fruit. It tasted bad. But any complaint would bring about a lecture about privilege and the plight of those less fortunate. Still, she could not be imagining it. This soup tasted even worse than usual, bitter and crunchy. Someone had forgotten to remove all the fruit seeds. Across the small table, Princess Oliana watched Hanalei struggle to finish her supper, lips twitching.
“Olifat,” Hanalei repeated, after swallowing hard, “is the father of all sea gods. His eldest daughter is Tarisso, the octopus goddess. And his eldest son is Taga, god of seadragons.”
“Taga is just one of the names used by the seadragon god. What are the others?” Princess Oliana reached for a cup filled with coconut water. Hanalei had climbed the tree herself, just this morning. With Princess Oliana looking on, she had twisted a single coconut free, later peeling away the husk and breaking open the shell with a sharp rock. It had been another lesson, in self-reliance.
“Um.” Hanalei poked about the utu with her spoon, thinking hard. “He goes by Taga, Hehu, Satawal, Cat . . . Do I really have to finish my soup? There are seeds in it.”
Princess Oliana froze. “Seeds?”
Hanalei bit down on a mouthful of seeds. The crunching sound was unmistakable. “See?”
Princess Oliana slapped Hanalei’s bowl off the table. It went sailing into the air, splintering onto the stone floor, cold soup everywhere. Hanalei shot up and cried, “What is—” And stopped, looking on in horror.
Princess Oliana had swayed to her feet, clutching the table for support. In the span of seconds, sweat had beaded her forehead and the whites of her eyes had turned a terrifying shade of red. The bat tattooed on her arm had faded to gray. She clutched her throat with one hand and said, with difficulty, “Hana, find help,” before crumpling to the floor, eyes wide open.
Hanalei screamed and screamed, and she ran, but just as she reached the door, her legs stopped all on their own. They felt heavy, like stone statues, and a wave of dizziness overcame her. She stumbled against the door, banging her head on the wood. Using her last bit of strength, she opened the door and fell through it, landing on the wood floor, cold against her cheek. Her eyes drifted shut to the sound of running feet. She heard Captain Erro shouting. Another person yelled her name. It was Sam, her friend, lifting her up, holding her close.
Three sharp knocks woke her. When she dragged the tub away and tested the door, she found that the outer bolt had been lifted. The passageway was empty, so she followed her nose up to the deck where a cooking station had been set up. Pork, rice, and strips of papaya sizzled in pans. Two dragoners, one male and one female, slapped food into bowls and made sure no one took more than their share. Others gathered in small groups, eating quickly and speaking in low tones, or clearing the deck of storm debris. No one paid any attention to Hanalei, but they fell silent when Moa came through the hatch. Bloodshot eyes, hair uncombed. He looked as if he had spent an even worse night than she had.
Moa spoke to her without stopping. “Stay out of his way.”
She knew that already. Hanalei had to look up to find Captain Bragadin. He stood on the forecastle roof, another spyglass in hand. She went to the rail to see what had captured his attention.
The seadragons had not been lost in the typhoon. They were in front of the ship this time, pinpricks in the distance, blue and green. Heading west.
It was a simple thing to steer clear of Captain Bragadin. Over the next few days, they rarely lost sight of the seadragons, which meant he had no use for her. He kept to the forecastle or to his cabin. His mood following the sinking of the Lagoon was even more mercurial than before. The dragoners summoned to his presence did not come away unscathed. It was not uncommon to hear shouting or furniture breaking against walls. It could not have helped his temper to realize that they were being followed by two more dragon ships. Hanalei stayed out of everyone’s way, in her cabin with her father’s papers and her notes, or in some forgotten pocket of the ship, or helping when she was told.
“You’ve done this before.” The dragoner’s name was Papeete. He was an islander in his middle years, a big man with wild, curly hair. It framed his head like a halo, like a full moon. The tattoo on his arm was of Rakakalan design. Bold sunrays drawn with heavy ink. Like Vaea’s.
“I have,” Hanalei said. So many times, she could do it in her sleep.
It was afternoon out on the deck. The sun was pleasant, the waters calm. Hanalei held a clay pitcher filled with dragon oil. Before her was a jar made of sea glass, a cloth square pulled tightly across its opening. Papeete held the cloth in place as Hanalei poured the oil onto it slowly, so that it did not flow over the sides. The cloth acted as a sieve, preventing dirt and sand from entering, and catching tiny bits of dragon bone. What settled in the jar was pure dragon oil. From the Anemone, it would find its way to harbor markets, sold to make ointments and soap, and to light lamps and torches throughout the Nominomi.
All around them, dragoners engaged in similar work. They had been at it all day. Though Captain Bragadin had unloaded the three seadragons at Kalama in a hurry, he had kept back a portion of their fat, preferring his methods for harvesting the oil. By the mainmast, Moa and a female dragoner fed large strips of blubber into cauldrons, massive pots that had to be stirred using oar-sized spoons. The smell was horrendous. Hanalei was glad to be on this side of the deck, away from the stench and fumes.
Papeete sat on a stool across from Hanalei. When the jar was full, he tossed the cloth into a bucket. “Who are your people, girl? You don’t sound like a Rakakalan.”
“That’s because I’m not.” Her satchel hung behind her, cumbersome, but she would not leave it behind in her cabin.
Papeete waited, and, when no further explanation was forthcoming, asked, “So. Where are you from? Salamasina?”
“No.”
“Wakeo?”
Hanalei selected another empty jar and set it before her. “I’m from nowhere.”
“Huh.” Papeete snagged a fresh cloth from a nearby mat. “Like the rest of us, then.”
Several feet away, the boy dragoner Ant glared in her direction. As though it was her fault entirely his fingers were crushed and his bandage stained with dragon oil. As if he had done nothing at all to deserve it. Hanalei ignored him. They had not docked at Masina to kick him off the ship, as the captain had originally intended. Like her, he knew too much.
The red-bearded dragoner stomped over and dumped an armful of glass jars onto the mat. They clanked alarmingly. His face was flushed with anger as he said, to no one in particular, “Stay away from Vaea. That mean old cat. What’s with her?”
Vaea was steering the wheel. Her eyes were narrowed on the red-bearded dragoner, lip curled as though ready to spit.
“What did you say to her?” someone asked.
“Nothing.” The red-bearded dragoner sat on a stool, so low his knees almost reached his chin. “I wanted to know about Prince Augustus. That’s all. What I should tell people if they ask us.”
Quiet fell. Even Hanalei stopped pouring, marveling at his dimness.
Papeete said, “You’re new here, Red Beard, so listen. We don’t know anything about that yellow-haired prince, or his granny. Never saw them. I’ve known the captain a long time. And the rules are we do what we’re told. We keep our mouths shut. We live long lives.”
“But—”
“Your. Mouth. Shut,” Papeete repeated. “Lucky for you Vaea didn’t feed you to the dragons.” There were murmurs of agreement.
“She won’t keep her mouth shut.” Ant sneered across the mat at Hanalei. “The captain’s gonna feed her to the dragons.”
Papeete reached around the red-bearded dragoner and smacked the boy on the back of his head.
“Ow!”
“Everyone knows that, boy. No need to say it out loud.” Papeete glanced over at Hanalei, spread his palms. “Apologies for the youth.”
Hanalei eyed Papeete with dark humor. “His rudeness. That’s what you’re apologizing for?” Not her death by the captain’s hands, which he would pretend he did not see.
Papeete placed the cloth tight over the pitcher, lips pressed in a prim line. “Good manners are important.”
“Accepted,” Hanalei said, because she knew it would irritate Ant, which it did. He rubbed his sore head and turned his back on her. What sort of name was Ant anyway? Short for Anthony? Or had his parents shown foresight into their son’s character, and named him after vermin?
More hours passed. Moa lit the first of the deck lanterns as the sun began its descent. The work would continue well into the night. Hanalei started to pour oil into a fresh jar. She stopped, her breath catching. When she shoved the pitcher at Papeete, he was so surprised he nearly dropped it. Hanalei went to stand by the railing, leaning out as far as she could, inhaling deeply. A full minute passed before Red Beard said, “Hey. What’s that smell? Is that cake?”
Nutmeg, Hanalei thought. Clove, cinnamon, mace. All growing on the mountains outside Tamarind City. Her birthplace.
“The girl smelled it before anyone,” Papeete murmured. “So that’s where she’s from.” Then, “That’s the Tamarind Archipelago. We won’t see it until early morning, but we know it’s there from way out here. They’re not called the Spice Islands for nothing.”
Hanalei had sailed this route several times over the last four years. Never stopping. There was no reason to. But every pass bruised her heart. Her mother was buried on Tamarind, though Hanalei had no memory of her. Her grandparents were buried there, and their parents. Six hundred years of family. And Princess Oliana, who had taken a motherless girl in hand and shown her kindness, and strength. She was on Tamarind too. Besides her father, Hanalei had loved her most of all.
It was one thing to pretend she was from nowhere. It was another to understand exactly where she came from and know she could never return.
No one yelled at her to get back to work, so Hanalei stayed where she was, her gaze sweeping from the seadragons to the setting sun to the two dragon ships trailing in their wake. It was as she was watching those ships that she spotted a small boat hanging off the very back of the Anemone. It swayed gently in the wind and was secured by rope. Her mind raced. Dragoners didn’t normally carry rowboats, unlike explorers or trading ships. She had not thought to look for one—
“Don’t think about it.” Captain Bragadin appeared by her side, making her jump.
He looked terrible. Worse even than Moa. Purple smudges framed his eyes. Heavy stubble covered his face. He had the appearance of someone who slept too little and drank too much. Which was what most people would do if they had just firebombed the Esperanzan king’s mother and his youngest son.
The conversation behind them had dropped off considerably. The others were listening.
Hanalei said, “I was thinking about the sunset.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s a beautiful one.” Captain Bragadin leaned his arms on the railing. “We’re docking at Tamarind,” he said, looking over in time to see her flinch. “The typhoon’s put holes in the hull. They need to be repaired or they’ll get bigger. It will be a short visit,” he emphasized. “That prince isn’t overly fond of me. Better if he doesn’t know I’m there.”
Sam. There was only one prince of Tamarind. It felt strange to hear the captain speak of him. Strange and dangerous. “What did you do to him?”
“You assume it’s my fault, not his,” Captain Bragadin said drily. “It was a misunderstanding, but the boy holds a grudge.” He gave her an appraising glance. “You knew him well, I suppose. Being his mother’s page.”
“I didn’t.”
“Really?”
“Pages don’t spend much time with princes.” Hanalei lied without hesitation. What the captain knew he used against you, eventually. She steered the conversation into safer waters. “What will you do with the dragonfruit? You can’t bring Prince Augustus back from the dead—”
A snort. “I’ll only have three eggs. Why would I waste one on him? Or the old woman?”
Three. So much for giving her one. How did he think to get out of this? He could not keep what he had done a secret. Someone on this dragoner would talk. Deliberately, for a price. Or accidentally, like that red-bearded dragoner was bound to do. The moment the Esperanzan king learned what had been done to his family, Captain Bragadin would become the hunted. No longer the hunter.
Unless.
This ship. His crew. What was she thinking? He did not need a dragon’s egg to solve this particular problem. He only needed to be rid of his ship and those on it. Not such a difficult task. He had done something similar only days ago. It had taken minutes.
“You’re too smart for your own good.” Captain Bragadin had been watching her. “And your face too expressive sometimes.” He turned back to the water. “You’ll remain in your cabin while we’re docked, under guard. Don’t do anything foolish.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good. Because it will not work. First, you would have to get to the rowboat without being seen.” He glanced behind him at the dragoners spread about the deck. Dozens of them, all with their eyes down and working diligently. He looked over at Moa, who had finished lighting the lanterns and now watched over everything from the forecastle roof. Moa nodded his head once in acknowledgment. “Which is unlikely,” Captain Bragadin continued. “Then you would have to cut the ropes, but you have no dagger, no knife. Even if you managed that, our harpoons carry a long way. And maybe you’ve forgotten, but there are monsters in the water.”
In the water. Right beside her. Monsters everywhere.
Never let him see you’re frightened. Hanalei stared straight ahead. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good,” Captain Bragadin said again. He walked off, then turned back and said, for her ears alone, “There’s nothing for you on Tamarind, Hanalei. Your family’s dead. You’re all alone. No one’s coming for you.”