Amala stood with Sârah Hrettah on the main deck, just outside the makeshift ring. They had been watching a swordplay competition between several nobles and guards. The event had been Rosârah Brelenah’s idea, intended to lift spirits after so many last rites shippings that morning.
It hadn’t.
Who could forget the sight of thirty-two wrapped bodies crammed onto reamskiffs like sausages in a pan? And Sâr Janek—beautiful, agreeable, loveable Sâr Janek—killed by Amala’s own guardian! Her eyes teared up just thinking of the injustice and how everyone blamed her.
Life had never been so hopeless, so grim. She desperately wanted to find someone who understood. Someone who didn’t care about rules or rank or what anyone thought, the way Sâr Trevn loved her sister. He had married her in secret! So said Sârah Hrettah.
But now Mielle was gone too.
One potential option soothed Amala’s despair. Agmado Harton. A week ago Ulmer had introduced them at a practice match on the main deck. Master Harton had won today’s swordplay competition easily. He was handsome, spoke kindly to her, and the fact that he had been demoted for disobeying Sâr Wilek proved his independent spirit.
She watched him from across the ring as he spoke with several guards. “Walk with me, Hrettah?” Amala suggested. “I’ve been standing still too long.”
Hrettah readily agreed, and Amala set off toward where Master Harton stood, intent on congratulating him for winning the match.
“I had no idea how talented Master Harton is with a sword,” she said to the sârah.
“He’d have to be to have been Wilek’s High Shield,” Hrettah said. “I heard the maids say Lady Lilou is in love with him.”
“I heard that too!” Amala said. “She was arrested, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, my brother arrested several on suspicion of treason.”
Good. Amala did not think she could compete with a woman as glorious as Lilou Caridod. She frowned, feeling altogether drab and hopeless in her black gown. “I hate wearing black.”
“Wearing black to mourn is meant to be an outward display of one’s inner feelings,” Hrettah said. “I don’t much like it either. It reminds me constantly that my mother is gone. But it also reminds others that I am grieving, and people have been very kind. Be thankful we are Armanite and only need wear it for five months. Sarikarians wear black for a full year when they mourn.”
But Amala was not mourning. She was angry. Angry at Kal for killing Sâr Janek, angry at Sâr Wilek for ordering Kal’s arrest, angry at Kal for running away like a coward, angry at everyone on board the ship for blaming her for Sâr Janek’s death. Angry at Mielle, first for marrying Sâr Trevn without inviting her to witness, then for getting lost on the Rafayah! What color should one wear to display anger? Red? Amala would do it, if she owned a red gown. She could just imagine the gossip that would fly about the ship at that breech of etiquette.
“But there is no proof that the Rafayah sank,” Amala said. “I am sure it has simply lost its way.”
“I hope you are right,” Hrettah said.
Of course she was right. Sâr Wilek could fix things if he wanted to. He could send a smaller ship to find the Rafayah. He could pronounce Sâr Trevn and Mielle’s marriage legal. But he didn’t care. And if he didn’t care about his own brother . . . Amala did not like that as her warden he now held her future in his hands.
By the time Amala and Hrettah neared Master Harton, he was speaking privately with Kamran DanSâr.
“The cook must have given it to someone,” she heard Kamran say. “But none of the guards have been able to find it.”
“I would give anything to find it,” Harton said.
Amala took Hrettah’s arm and stepped up to the men. “Find what?” she asked.
The men stared at each other as if they’d been caught telling secrets. Oh, how vexing that they refused to answer.
“It’s a bottle of evenroot, isn’t it?” Hrettah asked. “I heard Rosârah Brelenah speaking to Wilek about it.”
“The cook has given it to someone,” Master Harton said, “but she won’t say who.”
“Cook Hara?” Amala asked.
“She was arrested with the rebels,” Hrettah said.
“This is nothing you ladies should worry yourselves with,” Kamran said.
But Amala wasn’t worried. She believed she knew exactly what they were talking about! Enetta and Hara were old friends. A few weeks ago Amala had overheard the cook give Enetta something for safekeeping. Curious, she’d snooped into Enetta’s room and saw that it had been a little vial of white powder. Unimpressed, she’d thought nothing more about it until now. “You’re certain it was a bottle? Might it have been something smaller?”
Kamran narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
She didn’t want to say. Not if she could tell Master Harton later in private. He might be rewarded for finding the evenroot, and Amala did not want Kamran taking that away. “I thought evenroot was kept in vials.”
“It’s kept in both,” Kamran said.
“Congratulations on winning the match, Master Harton,” Amala said, quickly changing the subject, and Hrettah added her compliments as well.
Many more came to offer Master Harton their praise on his heroic win. Kamran excused himself, but Amala and Hrettah remained on the deck until the crowd thinned. When finally Rosârah Brelenah said they must return to their cabin, Amala made sure to fall behind with the guards.
“Master Harton,” she said. “Might I have a private word?”
“I suppose so.”
The other guards went on ahead, and Master Harton followed at Amala’s side.
Amala chose her words carefully, wanting to prove that she was a woman worth knowing better. “What you said about Cook Hara. I think I might know where the missing evenroot is, though it is a vial, not a bottle. Could that be possible?”
Harton’s eyes grew eager. “Yes, where is it?”
She swallowed, hesitant to mention the full truth and be discovered as a snitch. “I don’t know if I should say.”
He took hold of her arm and pulled her close. He smelled of stale sweat, leather, and metal. “Miss Amala, please. This is very important.”
His touch thrilled her yet warred with the fear that she might get caught. “I think I can get it for you. Would that help? Then I wouldn’t have to say where I found it.”
“That would be perfect. How soon can you get it?”
If she pretended to be ill at dinnertime, she would have the cabin to herself and could search Enetta’s room. “Tonight. I think.”
He squeezed her arm and his eyebrows sank. “Do your best, Miss Amala. And do not be afraid. I will be waiting right outside your door.”