The Reader (24 page)

“We understand.”

The captain spun the cylinder of the Executioner once, then fired his first question: “Who are you?”

“I'm Sefia and this is Archer,” she answered.

“He don't answer for himself?”

She glanced at Archer, who shook his head. “He can't speak,” she said. “I don't think he remembers how.”

Reed's gaze flicked over her shoulder to the mate, who must have nodded. “How'd you get on my ship?” he asked.

“We've been here since Epidram, when we accidentally stowed away in one of your crates.”

“Accidentally?”

“We didn't know it was yours. We just needed a place to hide.”

“How many more of you are out there?”

She shook her head, confused. “It's just us, sir.”

“How did Harison die?”

“The woman knifed him in the throat. I tried . . .” Tears rose in her eyes and she rubbed them away. But she couldn't help thinking of the way he had gone so still. “I tried to save him, but by the time the doc came, he was already dead.”

“Who was the woman?”

Sefia went cold. Her hands clenched into fists. “I don't know. But she kidnapped my aunt.” She didn't mention the scent of metal, or how the air had been laced with it the day her father died.

“What for?”

Her gaze flicked to her pack. Should she tell them about the book? It would be worse to be caught in a lie.

“She wanted the book.” Sefia felt the color drain from her face. The only person who knew she had the book was Nin. Did that mean . . . She thrust the thought away immediately.

“What's a buck?” Captain Reed's voice interrupted her thoughts.

“A
book
. It's . . . it's this thing I have.” Sefia grabbed her pack from the floor and began rummaging around inside it, her
fingers groping for the shape of the book. She pulled it out; after the bewildering events of the past hour and the sudden intersection of her journey and the
Current
's, it felt solid and familiar in her hands. It made her feel real. As she folded back the leather wrapping, the chief mate grunted behind her, like he'd been punched in the stomach. Archer turned, and Reed frowned at him, but no one said anything.

“This is a book.”

She held it out to the captain and in one swift movement he was on his feet, hand outstretched, fingertip brushing the edge of the cover.

But he didn't take it. He looked at it suspiciously for a moment before unhooking the clasps and lifting the cover—as if it were a box and he were expecting to peer inside at whatever magical object it contained—

Reed turned on her. Before she could even react, the Executioner was pointed between her eyes.

Archer shoved her out of the way. The book flew from her hands, pages splayed, bookmarks scattering. She hit the floor. Behind them, the chief mate had drawn on Archer. The boy froze.

Sefia sat up, rubbing her elbow. Only three rounds remained on the table. The captain had loaded and cocked the weapon in less than a second. “Archer, don't,” she said. Then, to Reed: “It's not dangerous. It won't hurt you.”

The chief mate shifted. “The boy saved Horse,” he said.

Captain Reed set the Executioner back on the table and sat down again. “That's why he's still breathin'.”

Archer bent down to help Sefia to her feet, but she
motioned for him to sit. She began collecting her bookmarks from the floor: the green feather, the pressed leaves. She would never be able to find her place again now—all the stories she had been reading were lost among the infinite pages. Gingerly, she gathered the bookmarks into the book and put it on the table.

“Why did you do that?” She studied his face, the lines of confusion and anger. He didn't like what he'd seen. Distrusted it, maybe even feared it.

Reed scratched his chest. “What are those marks?”

“Words.”

“Words are things you speak, not things you see.”

“These are words too. Just . . . in a different form.”

Reed narrowed his eyes. “What's so special about them?”

“I don't know.”

The mate made a small movement behind her.

“That's the last time you lie to me.” This time the captain didn't pull his weapon on her. Instead, he slid the remaining three rounds into the empty chambers and filled the rest from a pocket of his cleaning kit. He flipped the cylinder back into place and holstered the weapon. She realized why he had been cleaning it: he could only clean it after he'd killed, because every time the Executioner came out, someone died. At the same time, she understood that if he drew on her again, he was going to kill her.

“I mean—” She fumbled the words. “I don't fully understand it yet, but there's something magical about them. I can see things . . .”

“Like the mate?”

“No, not exactly.” She tilted her head, thinking. “Or . . . maybe? I can tell where something's been, who had it. That sort of thing.”

“And this magic is what hid you from the mate?”

“I don't know. We spent most of our time in the crate. We tried not to make much noise.”

Reed waved her theory off. “He shoulda been able to sense you either way.” He eyed the book. “So this is what that woman wanted, huh?”

She traced the
on the cover. “Yes.” The word was barely more than a whisper.

“Why?”

“I think my parents were protecting it from her.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I didn't even know they had it until I was nine . . . when my father was killed.” She continued tracing the symbol. Answers. Redemption. Revenge.

“By that woman?”

Sefia shrugged, though she didn't have the courage to look up, to admit that she had failed again. If the woman in black had found her because Nin had revealed her existence, Nin might be dead already. Sefia might be too late. She balled her fists and dug her nails into her palm, wanting the pain, wanting some punishment, wanting something to be different because she could never do what had to be done. “I think so,” she whispered.

“And how does Hatchet figure in to all this?”

She studied her palms, the four perfect crescents in her flesh. “He wanted Archer, and I . . . It's a long story.”

Captain Reed stared over her shoulder at the mate, and after a moment he sighed. “Well, kid, I'll say this: I don't believe you're out to harm me, my ship, or my crew, so I ain't gonna kill you. Now that gives you two options: either I drop you off, like I said earlier, or I take you with us.”

Sefia straightened at his words, but Reed was still speaking. “Cooky and Horse've already vouched for you, and Doc . . . Well, I still got questions that need answers. Here's the deal: you tell me your story—who you really are, what you're after, what you know about this buck—and the strength of your story'll determine whether you stay or go. Them terms acceptable to you, little lady?”

Sefia nodded and lifted her chin. A story to save their lives. She could tell a story. She could at least do that. “My name is Sefia,” she began.

I
n Kelanna, when you die, they put your body on a floating barge. They place you on a pile of logs and blackrock, dry brush and kindling, and they send you burning onto the ocean.

They don't light candles. They don't burn fragrant sticks of incense or stacks of paper to send you on your way. They don't put coins over your eyes so that you will be able to pay the ferryman. They don't believe in a ferryman. In Kelanna, there is no afterlife to ferry you to.

In Kelanna, when you die, you're gone. They don't believe in souls. They don't believe in ghosts. They don't believe in calming spirits that walk by your side after your friend or your sister or your father has died. They don't believe you get messages from the dead. The dead no longer exist.

In Kelanna, when you die, they don't say prayers for you, for they have no heaven and no gods to pray to. There is no
reincarnation; you will not return. Without a body, you are nothing anymore, except for a story.

In Kelanna, when they mourn, they tell stories—as if the stories will keep you close to them. Believing that if they tell them often enough, for long enough, you won't be forgotten. Hoping that the stories will keep you alive—if only in memory.

But some of them, a sad and hopeful few, talk of a dead sea. In the far west, in the wild waters beyond all the known currents: the place of the fleshless. They say that at night, when the sky is darkest, the waves glitter like rubies. They say that these are the thousand red eyes of the dead—though there are more than a thousand, and they will not always be dead.

• • •

D
eep below the surface of the sea, far beyond the warm reach of sunlight, it will be a blind world, with no difference between night and day. There will be no color, no shape, no shadow. They will be suspended in the void, unable to tell if they are fixed or moving because there will be no landmarks for them to recognize. There will be nothing to tell them where they've been or where they are going. They will be alone.

This will be the wild black world at the bottom of the sea, a place meant only for monsters and ghosts.

But then, at last, after endless years of waiting, they will hear the call. They will rise, shooting upward through the darkness like bolts of light. They will come to the deep blue, where the whales sing their sad songs and starving sharks swim for miles in search of prey. They will stream by squid, sea turtles, clouds
of shrimp, schools of shimmering fish, and enter the vivid turquoise world just below the surface. The white flashing underside of the sky and the sun striking the water.

Like spears they will burst into the air. They will remember how bright the world is, how the waves sparkle, how the sky is so unforgivingly blue. They will remember the way the wind pulls them, tugs them, scolds, and carves them. And the
sound
of it all: the slap of waves on a wooden hull, the creak of timber, the calls of gulls, the rough salted voices of sailors and the clatter of activity on deck, hammers clanking on distant shores, children laughing, swords crossing, guns firing, people speaking, shouting, singing.

They will have returned.

is this a book

I
t was past dawn by the time Sefia and Archer were let out of the great cabin. Captain Reed had not said he was going to let them stay on the ship, but there was a funeral to attend to, and some other business the captain and the mate would not discuss. Though the sun had risen, the fog obscured much of the morning light, and to Sefia's sleep-deprived brain, they seemed to be floating in a liminal space between night and day, here and there, reality and fiction. Beside her, Archer yawned and winced, patting his injured ribs.

The rest of the crew had gathered on the main deck, where a makeshift raft loaded with blackrock waited to be lowered into the sea. On top of the pyre, Harison's body lay with a single red feather between his stiff fingers.

For his mother.

“Looks like he's sleepin', don't it?” Horse murmured.

Sefia set her jaw. He looked
vacant
, not like a person but a
person-shaped mound of flesh, and whatever had made him Harison, whatever had made him cringe and mutter and laugh, was gone. Her eyes were dry as she watched the fog churn over the gray waters.

As a rule, funerary rites on the sea were quick affairs, and most of the mourning was done in the weeks afterward, as those who knew the deceased told and retold the stories of his life. So there was little ceremony: the tolling of the ship's bell, the torch, and the lowering of the pyre into the sea.

Two crewmen pushed the burning raft away from the ship, and Jules stepped forward, twisting her cap in her hands. Sefia recognized her from the legends about the
Current
: a stalwart sailor with skin like sunlight on honey and arms tattooed with birds and flowers. She was in charge of leading the work songs for the larboard watch, singing out line after line for the rest of the watch to repeat as they hauled sheets or turned the capstan. Her voice was strong and fine as silk, rustling at the edges, and it rose over them as the pyre floated into the fog, fire and black smoke melting into the mist.

Soft as an echo, I feel I am fading—

Fading until I am gone.

Still I remain. I am listening and waiting—

Waiting for you to go on.

Once more, once more.

Tell me my story once more.

Swiftly repeat it before I'm forgotten—

Pleading, O tell me, once more.

Theo, the chanty leader on the starboard watch, added his haunting baritone to the chorus, and one by one, the other sailors joined them, until the song was a tapestry of sounds layered one on top of another in startling seamless harmony. The music made Sefia think of the way a city disappears, smaller and smaller on the horizon, as a ship sails away from it, until it is nothing more than a vague shadow . . . a smudge . . . an imagined point on the wide blue sea.

As the last notes faded, Horse murmured, “You miss a man so much.”

And the rest of the crew echoed him.

You miss a man so much.

Then it was over, and the crew dispersed to their watches. Sailors scattered to the forecastle, the galley, the crow's nest. Sefia was handed a steaming mug and a bowl of rice porridge while Archer was whisked to the sick bay. She barely got the chance to tell him it was going to be all right before he'd disappeared belowdecks.

Sefia stumbled up the steps to the quarterdeck, clutching her breakfast. Her crate lay on the deck, its broken side splintered where Archer had shoved it open. Behind it, Captain Reed prowled back and forth at the rail, looking into the mist, then turning around again to stare with equal intensity at the crate. She wondered why it upset him so much. The chief mate simply stood beside it, brushing his fingers against it every so often, as if to reassure himself it was still there.

Hastily, she took a swig of coffee and gobbled down a few spoonfuls of the rice, which was light and creamy and fluffy as
clouds, with a hint of ginger and red chunks of sausage. Even a few mouthfuls of Cooky's food warmed her insides, and she instantly felt more awake.

Reed gestured for her to eat faster. She shoveled a few more spoons of porridge into her mouth obediently.

“What can you tell me about this crate?” he asked.

Sefia swallowed. The wooden box was stamped with the insignias of all the ships it had traveled on: each stamp was painted with a black slash after the crate was dropped off, and then it was stamped again before being loaded onto the next ship. But that was nothing unusual. She crept closer, and what she saw nearly made her drop her breakfast.

There, in the upper corner, scratched into the wooden boards, were words.

Words!

She grasped for them. Their small splintery edges cut into the tips of her fingers.

The letters were so precise they must have taken years of practice to perfect. There were other writers, then. Other readers.

Sefia swayed. The scratching sound they'd heard back on the docks—someone had
carved
these words into the wood while she and Archer were inside.

She had the sudden feeling that something was wrong with the crate—or no, not
wrong
exactly but
strange
, so that it
flickered in and out of her vision, as if it were made of something more than planks and iron nails. She put out a hand to steady herself, to reassure herself that the crate was still there.

She drew back. That was what the mate was doing, brushing his fingers against the crate because
he couldn't see it
. It was
entirely invisible
to him, who could see everything on the
Current
. But how? Was it the words that had done it?

As she explained what the words said, Captain Reed glanced at the mate, whose brow furrowed, deepening the lines on his wrinkled face. “But I didn't know words could do
this
,” she added.

Reed flicked open a knife.

Sefia tensed and glanced at the mate, but his grim face was impassive.

The captain offered the knife to her, handle first, and held out a scrap of wood. “Try. Let's see if you can make something disappear.”

She only hesitated a moment before she took the knife and began to carve. She'd told him everything the night before, everything she knew about the book and the symbol, her parents and the impressors, Archer and Serakeen, what it meant to read and how she'd taught herself to write. She dug the tip of the knife into the wood, scoring it, chipping away at the curves of the letters, until the pale wood beneath showed.

She grimaced at her own imperfect writing, the letters tipsy and mismatched.

“Well?” the captain asked.

The chief mate plucked the block of wood out of Sefia's hands and dappled his fingers over her hastily carved letters. “Nope,” he said.

Reed took back his knife, blew the last splinters from its blade, and folded it up into his pocket again. He tapped his chest thoughtfully, and seemed about to speak when something on the water caught his eye. He pressed himself against the rail, his gaze traveling back and forth across the waves, tracing their shapes.

Sefia knew that look as soon as she saw it. He was
reading
. Maybe he couldn't read words, but he could read the water. He could navigate it effortlessly, as if the oceans were splitting into glossy liquid roads for him.
No one
knew the sea like him.

“Something's out there,” he muttered.

“The ship that woman came from?” the mate asked.

“Don't know.”

Sefia glanced down the stairs to the main deck. If more people were coming for the book, they had to get away. Archer was in the sick bay; the book, in the great cabin. She wouldn't leave without them.

“Sail off the starboard beam!” Meeks shouted from the crow's nest.

Reed stared into the fog. “What sort of vessel?”

“Don't know, Cap. She was gone before I could tell.”

From behind them, the mate spoke up: “Is it today?”

Sefia glanced at the captain, who shook his head. “Not today,” he said.

Pigtails flying behind her, the ship's steward, Aly, raced up to them and passed a spyglass to Reed. He put it to his eye.
All across the deck, sailors peered into the fog. For a moment, nothing stirred except the roiling mist.

Sefia edged toward the stairs, ready to run.

The mate caught her by the back of the neck. She struggled briefly, but his hand tightened like a vise and she went still. “Don't think so, girl.”

She glared up at him.

From above, Meeks called, “There she is again, Cap!”

A ship appeared in the mist, little more than a shadow with tendrils of fog twisting around its hull. Reed passed the spyglass to Aly. “I need your eyes, kid. Who's out there?”

The tall steward raised the glass. After a moment, she lowered it again and shook her head. “Too much fog to tell, sir.”

Reed cursed.

The mate's hard fingers pinched the back of Sefia's neck. “You said you could see things, girl.”

She tried to pull away, but he hung on, and she looked toward the ship, steeling herself against the pain and the nausea. Then she blinked, and streams of golden light rippled outward from the shadowed vessel. She saw flashes of uniforms, rocky shores where Evericans once fought Evericans, before King Darion united them against their Oxscinian colonizers. She lurched forward, blinking.

The chief mate hauled her upright again. “What's wrong, girl?”

“It's from Everica.” She grimaced as the vertigo struck her. “The navy.”

A muscle twitched in the mate's jaw. “Are you sure?”

She rubbed her temples. “I'm sure.” She'd heard attacks on
the shipping lanes were getting more and more frequent. Lots of people were scared to leave their own kingdoms. Even outlaws like Captain Reed skirted the battle zones in the Central Sea.

Meeks let out another cry from above. “It's a Blue Navy vessel, Cap! She's headin' our way!”

Reed's eyes widened with surprise. “That's some trick, kid.”

“Is that where the woman came from?” Sefia asked.

“The Blue Navy don't make killers like that,” Reed muttered. “Least, they didn't used to.”

Sefia eyed the ocean. The ship was drawing closer, growing larger and larger in the mist like a shadow at dusk.

Suddenly, there was fire in the fog. Two explosions of orange lit up the mist like firecrackers.

“Get down!” Reed yelled.

Sefia was thrown to the deck. The chief mate's body landed on top of her, shielding her from the blow. The sounds of distant cannon fire reached them, but there was no splintering of wood, no splash of iron in the water. She scrambled out from under the mate and hauled him up after her.

The captain was already at the rail, staring out over the ocean. “That wasn't meant for us.”

The mist rolled back, unveiling a second ship, its shapes blurred at the edges, its colors dimmed by fog. The Everican Navy vessel came about to meet her.