The Reader (17 page)

“On my honor, I will not lie.”

They shook. Her palm came away clammy and cold.

“First question,” he said, sliding the tourmaline into a fold of his apron. “What's my name?”

She studied his face: the wrinkles, the aquiline nose, the mumbling mouth. But she needed to see more than this. She focused on his scars, like four stars in his cheek. She willed herself to decipher them the way she would decipher an unfamiliar four-letter word, each symbol lined up one after another.

Then she blinked, and the light flooded over her. Four star-shaped scars on the left cheek:
Liar. Traitor.
She could see the lines of his life leading backward from this moment, through time. She saw his loneliness, his poverty, his fear. Years and years of it stretching back and back until he was just a young
man, serving on the deck of an enormous golden ship. He'd gotten greedy. Then he'd gotten caught.

“Farralon Jones.” She swallowed. “Your name is Farralon Jones.”

The bartender laughed. “Well, well, that's some trick! Who told you?” He pointed at the one-armed man. “Was it you, Honeyoak? You dirty old bastard.”

The man sipped his drink and chuckled. His speech was slurred. “Wasn't me, Jonesy. Never said a word to this girl in my life.”

Sefia's eyes unfocused as she slid, dizzy and nauseated, through the currents of his life. The pounding had begun in her temples and the pain was radiating behind her eyes. She put a hand against the bar to steady herself. “That's one,” she said. “Ask me another.”

Jones tapped his chin again. “Interesting, interesting. That's a nice trick. I've got to think of a harder question this time.”

“Don't be all day about it,” she snapped. Her insides lurched. “I'm in a hurry.”

“All right, I have it.” The bartender pointed to his cheek. “How did I get this scar? Don't leave out any details, now.”

The light spun around her in gut-churning spirals. She swayed. “You betrayed your captain.”

“Now, now, girl.” He rubbed his cheek. “You've got to do better than that.”

She narrowed her eyes. A sour taste washed over her tongue. “You were a common sailor on the
Crux
, serving under Captain Dimarion. Things might have turned out all right for you, if you hadn't gotten so greedy. But you were passing through
Oxscinian waters, and there was a bounty out on him. They'd increased it since he'd been attacking ships in the Bay of Batteram. The money was too good. You turned him in. You thought you could get away with it, but he caught you.”

Honeyoak laughed, and the bartender glared at him. “All right, all right. That's two.”

Sefia was sweating. The room heaved and swelled around her. She could feel the heat of Archer's hand on her elbow and tried to focus on that instead of the dizziness, instead of the breaking and splitting inside her head. “Ask me another,” she said.

Farralon Jones stared at the piece of quartz and passed a hand over his face. Then he narrowed his eyes and said, “What's the one thing I value most in this world?”

Sefia grasped for answers, her vision flooding into the darkest corners of his past, invading his history. She saw too many things to name; sights, sounds, smells washed over her again and again like cruel gold waves, but among them, as if she were thrusting her head above water, gasping for air, she saw flashes of the answer. The captain had a fist like a sledgehammer, and on it he wore four vicious jeweled rings. She felt the pain in her cheek, like it was her own flesh being ripped to pieces. No one would hire him after that. No one wanted to hire a marked man. Not even his own wife trusted him. And Sefia could see how much that meant to him, losing his wife, his daughter, the only two people he'd ever really cared about, besides himself.

She flailed in the light, choking on it as she tried to return to herself. Her body. Somewhere out there in the riptides of gold and light.

Then she felt it: the warm pressure of Archer's palm on the point of her elbow, reeling her back to him. Back to herself.

She blinked, and her awareness came barreling back into her body. Her knees buckled. But Archer caught her.

“You want me to say it's your wife and daughter,” she gasped. Her insides were heaving, her mouth dry. But even the seasickness was welcome, this being wholly herself again. “But that's wrong. You never looked after them the way you looked after yourself. If you loved them at all, you never would have done it. You only ever cared about yourself. That's your answer.”

Everyone in the bar was looking at them.

“How did you—?” His eyes flicked nervously back and forth. “I never told anyone . . .”

“I
see
you,” she said. She put the heels of her hands to her temples and squeezed, as if that could stop the awful pounding. She remembered his wife's words, the last words she had ever said to him, and Sefia repeated them one after another.
“You're a greedy little coward, Farralon Jones, and now everyone who sees you will know it.”

He dropped the glass he had been polishing. It hit the bar top, chipped, and fell to the floor, where it shattered at his feet. He backed away. The shards crunched under him. “I didn't—How did you know—”

“I told you,” Sefia said.
“I see you.”

She felt breathless and dizzy and sick inside, but she had won. She snatched up the quartz and handed it back to Archer, who pocketed it solemnly.

Honeyoak was still laughing, tipping drunkenly on his stool. She dipped her finger into his glass and traced the
on the
wooden bar, its wet edges wavering under her trembling finger. “This symbol,” she said. “Do you recognize it?”

Jones peered at it dumbly. “Never seen this brand before.”

Sefia nodded. Except for Archer's crate, she'd never seen the thing in all her travels either. “Tell me about the man with the red beard, then.” She breathed fast through her nose and tried to ignore the nauseating stink of sopping sawdust rising from the ground.

“He works for a man called Hatchet.”

“I know. Where did he go?”

“The back door.” Jones pointed to a corner of the tavern, where a small door was hidden among the darkened tables. He smiled an oily smile, though Sefia wasn't sure why. “He and Hatchet are leaving port this morning on a ship called the
Tin Bucket
. She's docked at Black Boar Pier now.”

“Where are they headed?”

He shrugged. “Don't know. The
Bucket
can go just about anywhere in the Central Sea from here.”

“When do they set sail?”

He knelt to pick up the pieces of glass on the floor, his voice rising from behind the bar like smoke: “Half an hour.”

She looked up at Archer, who nodded grimly. “We don't have much time.” She headed toward the back, still unsteady on her feet, pulling Archer after her. He closed the door behind them just as she flung herself to her knees and threw up in the gutter.

Over and over she vomited, her body shuddering and heaving.

Archer sat beside her and rubbed her back, his palm making
smooth up and down motions along her spine, over her shoulder blades. The touch comforted her, helped to subdue the nausea and the blistering headache.

When she finally sat back, he offered her the canteen. She took it weakly and washed out her mouth a few times. They were in a little alley cluttered with trash bins and old fishing nets.

“I thought I was lost back there. Like I was going to be swept away, my mind, my memories, all picked apart and dissolved into nothing.” She shuddered. The last vestiges of headache still throbbed between her eyes, and the shacks and streets wouldn't stop swaying, but she struggled to her feet.

“But you brought me back,” she finished. “Thank you.”

Archer smiled.

“Let's go.”

He nodded and took the canteen from her. They left the alley as fast as Sefia's wobbling legs would let her.

Down by the shore, the piers were crowded with rowboats, sailboats, and other small craft. The merchant ships were flagged with the colors of their home kingdoms—white-and-gold for Liccaro, black-and-white for Deliene—but there was no trace of Everican blue-and-gray. To fly Blue Navy colors in Oxscini would have meant certain death. Beyond the arc of the harbor, a flotilla of Red Navy ships patrolled the shore—a sash of crimson in the deep blue sea.

Dockworkers scrambled up and down the gangplanks as they loaded great nets with cargo and hauled them over the rails, and Messengers in black armbands scurried here and there among
the passengers, rattling off their messages. Gulls wheeled overhead like vultures or perched ominously on barnacle-encrusted stumps peeking out of the green water.

“News from the Northern Kingdom!” a newsman called as they raced past. “No word from the Lonely King in months! Sir Gentian to return to Deliene!”

Sefia tipped a copper into his collection tin as they passed, and the next bit of news only dimly reached her over the noise of the port: “Blue Navy strikes the Oxscinian shipping lanes again! Queen Heccata sends more ships north from Kelebrandt!”

At the entrance to each pier was a tall wooden pillar, and at the top of each pillar was a sculpture. Sefia and Archer raced past Crown Pier, Canary Pier, Red Barrel Pier, dodging scrawny war orphans and wagons and sailors unloading crates. When they finally reached Black Boar Pier, with a snarling steel razorback at the top of its pillar, they found it bustling with activity, so jammed with dinghies and little sloops and sailors that it was hard to walk. Peering through the crowds, Sefia spotted a few tall ships at the end of the dock. Men swarmed around them like black ants.

She tugged the sleeve of a nearby sailor. “Can you tell me where the
Tin Bucket
's headed?”

He snatched his arm out of her reach. “Get lost, kid. I don't work here.”

While Archer kept a lookout for Hatchet and his men, she tried again and again to find someone who knew the
Bucket
's destination, even attempting bribery with a few copper kispes, but no one would tell her.

“If that greasy backstabbing coward lied to us . . .” She fidgeted with the ends of her pack straps. “C'mon. We'll see for ourselves.”

Archer nodded. Together, they snuck along the crowded pier, hiding among groups of passengers, but they saw no sign of the impressors.

As they neared the splintery gray ship that must have been the
Tin Bucket
, they ducked behind a stack of crates to survey the dock. On her hands and knees, Sefia peered around the corner, her quick eyes picking out stevedores milling about on the decks and gangways.

But none of them were Hatchet and his men.

Sefia cursed again and crept forward, through the clusters of barrels and old nets and other miscellaneous cargo waiting to be loaded. She glanced over her shoulder at Archer, but before she could say anything, Redbeard leapt out from behind a crate and grabbed her by the collar, dragging her painfully to the center of the dock. Struggling in his grasp, she watched in horror as the rest of the impressors appeared from their hiding places.

“No!” Sefia kicked and flailed, bit and screamed. “Archer, run!” She got one good look at his frightened face before Redbeard struck her in the side of the head.

The world spun, and she remembered the bartender's greasy smile. He'd tricked them. And she hadn't seen it.

Hatchet and his men closed in around Archer, weapons drawn.

A
rcher dashed forward. He had to get to her. Four men surrounded him. There were others behind him; he could feel them blocking his way off the pier. His knife was in his hand. He had to get to her. He kicked the first one he reached, slammed his foot straight into the man's gut. The man toppled backward. Another came at him. Archer dodged and slashed him across the throat. Blood. That familiar gurgling sound—surprised. They always sounded surprised.

A shot, like thunder. He lunged. He had to get to her. Someone tackled him. He was on the ground. The man was heavy, all arms. Archer fought for air, searching wildly for Sefia.

The man with the red beard was laughing as she flailed in his arms. He spun her around. A knife at her throat.

“Thief!” he spat.

Her hands went to her neck, but he was too strong.

“At least you brought back what you stole.”

Sefia stamped her heel down on top of the man's foot. His grip loosened. She jammed her elbow into his stomach. The wind went out of him. And then she was free.

“Archer!”

Archer raised the knife and stabbed the man who'd tackled him. The blade slipped between the ribs, up to the hilt. He shoved the body away from him. The man with the red beard kicked him in the side. Again and again. To keep him down.

Archer slashed at the man's ankle. There was a
pop
. Redbeard crumpled. Archer was on his feet again. The others were closing in around him, but he was only looking for Sefia.

She had been caught, lifted up by the throat. She gasped for air, fingers clawing at the hand that held her. Hatchet's hand. With his other hand, he jammed a gun into her cheek. “Enough,” he called. His meaty face was red, his brown eyes slitted dangerously. “Be still, boy.”

He couldn't throw the knife faster than Hatchet could pull the trigger. Archer dropped his hands. There was blood on them. There was blood on the dock. The men were limping out of his reach. Two weren't moving, stretched out on the ground.

“The blade too,” said Hatchet.

Sefia was going red in the face. Archer let the knife fall from his fingers and felt the men around him breathe sighs of relief.

“Look at you, boy! Well-fed and fattened up. I bet this little thing has been treating you
real
nice.” He leered at her. “And thank
you
for returning him in such excellent condition. He's in even better shape than when you stole him.” He put his face close to hers. “You think I didn't know I was being followed? You think I'd just let him go? He's the best fighter I've ever
seen. I wouldn't be surprised if he
is
the one Serakeen's been looking for all this time. A great soldier to lead his army.”

Archer calculated the amount of time it would take him to reach Hatchet. Too long. Sefia's eyes were closing. The color in her face was growing darker.

Hatchet holstered the gun, but didn't loosen his grip on her throat. “You were a fool to come here, boy. You could have gotten away with your freedom if not for her.”

It was happening again. It was going to happen again. The packed, blood-muddied earth. The fists and knives and chains. The crate. The stinking darkness. Not that. Anything but that. He'd run. He'd die first.

But he couldn't let them kill Sefia.

He steeled himself for a blow, but it didn't come. There was another gunshot. Hatchet hissed and dropped Sefia as bits of flesh and bone shattered in his arm. The crate behind him splintered. Sefia fell to the ground and didn't get up.

They all looked to the man standing, gun smoking, across the dock. He was tall and lean, with his hat pulled low over his eyes. A normal-looking sort of sailor. But it was his gun they were staring at: silver filigree, and an ivory grip inlaid with mother-of-pearl. One of the two most famous guns in the world. The other was still in its holster.

“I heard you was traffickin' kids,” the man drawled. “Didn't want to believe it, though.”

Hatchet gritted his teeth and held his wounded arm. “This isn't your business, Reed. Just let me take my property and—”

Another shot grazed his ear. There was a little blood, and a
tuft of hair fell to Hatchet's shoulder. He flinched, but didn't cry out.

“People ain't property,” Reed growled. Beneath the brim of his hat, his blue eyes flashed.

“We're headed to Jahara, out of your hair,” Hatchet called, undaunted. “You can have the girl, if she's alive.”

Archer stared at Sefia. She wasn't moving.

“Kid.” Reed nodded at him. “Best get your friend and hightail it outta here.”

“Maybe all that fame's going to your head, Captain,” Hatchet sneered, “because you seem to think you can waltz in here and get what you want with one gun, when the truth is you're outnumbered.” Hatchet's men cocked their guns. There was the insect-like clicking of hammers being pulled back.

Reed chuckled. “I can count.”

Behind him appeared the crewmen of the
Current
. They seemed huge, standing there, grinning and gunning for a fight.

Hatchet's men lowered their weapons. Archer shoved his way past them to Sefia's side. She was wheezing, but she was alive. He touched her gently on the shoulder.

“Move it, kid,” Reed called.

Archer scooped her up. She was so light. Like a feather, or a fledgling. He grabbed her pack. She wouldn't like it if he forgot her pack. He carried her, softly, like she'd break in his arms. Hatchet's men parted for him.

The captain hadn't lowered his weapon. “I got people all over this kingdom,” he said, “and if I hear one more word 'bout you capturin' children, I'll take my ship, and I'll hunt you
down like an animal. No matter where you go in this big blue world, I'll find you.”

Archer was out of earshot now, so he couldn't hear what Hatchet said next, but he heard the gunfire. He heard the scream, and the clash of swords.

Sefia wasn't doing well. There were ugly red marks all around her neck. He swallowed compulsively, feeling the scar tissue around his own throat contract. He reached the beginning of the pier. It was deserted. All the people had fled. He didn't know what to do. This wasn't like in the forest, where she'd been able to show him where to go. She hadn't had time to teach him what to do.

All the docks looked the same—all the boats and ships and piles of cargo. He couldn't stay. He had to go somewhere.

He began running. He had to find help. There were still people on the other piers. Maybe they would be able to do something.

Archer dashed in among them. He opened his mouth.

But the words did not come. They were not in him. He could feel the place where they should have been, like a black hole inside him, but the words themselves were not there.

“Boy, are you all right?”

Their faces loomed huge in front of him. Their hands were reaching.

“What happened to the girl?”

They clustered around him. They all looked the same. His head spun. He didn't know where he was, how far he had gone. Sefia was breathing shallowly in his arms.

There were too many people. They were too close. Their
hands were grabbing at him, reaching for Sefia. Their words became gibberish. They were loud, circling him. He had to get away. He had to go somewhere safe.

Darkness. That was what he needed. Someplace small. A place where they couldn't get to him, where he would be safe.

Fear and pain were coming, and this time Sefia's soft dark voice wasn't there to stop them. The livid marks on her neck had stolen her voice away, and now she lay unconscious in his arms.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He hid. He found an empty cargo crate on one of the piers, laid Sefia inside, and crawled in after her, pulling the crate closed behind him. And then there was nothing but black and the sounds of footsteps and voices outside.

His hands were sticky with blood, but he set down the packs and did his best to brush the hair out of her face before propping a pack behind her head like a pillow. Then he sat down against the side of the crate, arms around his knees, listening to her breathing, listening for sounds of pursuit, and waiting for her to wake.