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The Sainted King towed Lore toward the warship, and she lost Amelia in the crowd. Maxon and Caius fell in behind them, but far enough away not to overhear if she whispered.
When she leaned into Bastian’s shoulder, however, it came out more hiss than whisper. “Do you really think showing the enemy the interior of our best ships is a good strategy?”
“It is if these aren’t our best ships,” Bastian murmured back with significantly less hiss. “Or even naval ships, technically. These are borrowed from August’s personal fleet. The cannons are just decoration. The new ship is still docked up the harbor, fully guarded. When we name this one, it will be named by proxy.”
Her death grip on his arm slackened, but Lore still frowned up at him. “That’s… clever.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He tapped a finger on the end of her nose. “It’s good to keep some secrets, even from potential allies.”
Lore wrinkled her nose and ducked away. “Calling the Kirythean Empire a potential ally seems overly optimistic.”
“I am a very optimistic man.”
Two Presque Mort guarded the gangplank, but clearly only in name, granting entry to anyone who approached with nothing but a cursory nod. When they saw Bastian, they stepped all the way aside, letting him and Lore and the Kirytheans pass wordlessly.
The ship was nearly as fine as the Citadel, which Lore guessed made sense if it was really from August’s personal fleet. She only had a moment to marvel at the gleaming boards of the deck, the gold worked into the railings, before Bastian led her to a small spiral staircase cut into the floor, leading down into the bowels of the vessel. “The best way to experience it is bottom-to-top,” he called back to the following diplomats. “Trust me.”
“Is that bullshit?” Lore murmured to his back as she followed him into the dark. “It sounds like bullshit.”
“Only partially.” He hopped off the bottom step, reached up for her hand to help her down. “I have plans for us once we reach topside, and I’d like for our guests to be among the audience rather than sharing the stage.”
Plans like channeling. Lore frowned, but in the sudden dark after the brightness of outside, she didn’t think Bastian saw it. “I told you I won’t.”
“Lore, please.” And he sounded so much like he had last night—so wounded, vulnerable, all the soft parts of him bared—that she didn’t say anything more.
She expected relief from the heat beneath the deck, but the enclosed space just made the humidity oven in on itself. Her hair stuck to the nape of her neck, heavy and uncomfortable.
It didn’t occur to Lore until they were in the depths of the ship that there were no bloodcoats down here, no Presque Mort. If either of the Kirytheans decided to try to take them out, there would be no one to stop the attack but themselves.
When she looked at Bastian, there was a near-feral gleam in the smile he gave her. Almost like he’d relish the opportunity.
Wooden steps creaked as Maxon and Caius made their way down the spiral stairs. Bastian turned away from her, gesturing to the open expanse of the hold, about half as large as the throne room in the Citadel and just as finely outfitted. “Gentlemen, welcome aboard.”
The tour was a bit of a blur. Lore had become inured to the finery of the Citadel; at this point, her eyes slid past jewels and gilding without much thought. There was a bit much down here for it to be a convincing warship, between the ballroom with statues of scantily clad mermaids and the giant canopied beds in what was supposed to be barracks. But maybe the Kirytheans would just think that Auverraine was swimming in money, that even their engines of war were luxurious.
The fact that August’s terrible taste could bring down the ruse would be funny if it weren’t a legitimate concern.
But the Kirytheans didn’t seem to see through the deception. Maxon nodded and made the appropriate awed noises when cued. Caius kept his silence, giving no indication to what he thought.
Tour concluded, Bastian led them all back up the spiral stairs and into the unforgiving sunlight. Two Presque Mort waited at the top of the stairs; he waved a hand with some meaningless words of parting—enjoy the wine, we’ll rejoin the party momentarily—then took Lore’s arm and started strolling toward the prow, gait unhurried but purposeful.
The front of the ship was hung with colorful banners, deep-purple pennants whipping in the salty breeze. Rosebushes had been brought down from the Citadel in huge copper pots, flanking the prow. It made the space look almost like a stage.
Lore halted, planted her feet. She didn’t say anything; she’d said it all before, and had nothing to add to her refusal. She wasn’t channeling.
“Lore.” Bastian stopped, came in front of her. Picked up her hand. “You have no reason to be afraid. You’ve channeled with me before, and I know Malcolm’s talk of consequences wasn’t anything new. What’s changed, really?”
A shrewd spark in his eye, even as his voice stayed soft. His eyes searched hers, as if looking for something lurking behind them.
And Lore knew, then, that she wasn’t really talking to Bastian. Knew that he flickered in and out like a candle in high winds.
Dread wrapped its fist around her spine.
He stepped a bit closer, tipped up her chin. The sun blazed behind him, haloed his dark hair almost auburn. “Do you trust me?”
No. “It’s not about that.”
An infinitesimal flinch backward, like he’d seen the true answer in her face. His expression changed, softened, the austere lines of it becoming something more familiar. “Lore.”
