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CHAPTER 6
Jarin climbed the stairs from the brig, leaving the siren in the cell.
Had his luck finally changed? Would she dispense with Artus, leaving him to take command of the ship? A siren was one of the few beings strong enough to kill Artus. Nor was she bound by the Dark Tide blood oath that dictated no pirate could slay the captain. It couldn’t hurt to make her try, anyway.
The fear in her eyes when he pinned her wrists confused him, though. He hadn’t known a siren could fear humans. They were like the ocean made sentient, in all its majesty and untamable rage. As a sailor, he knew well enough to fear and respect the ocean. Never had he known it to fear him in return. Polinth sure did a number on her. Jarin would almost feel sorry for her, if she’d not plunged a shard of glass into his heart.
He put the siren from his mind. There were bigger concerns, like the cryptic words the old Seer, Ferrante, muttered to Jarin the last time they saw one another. The old man said that fate itself would rest on this expedition and the trinket Artus sought.
The deck was a hive of activity as the captured ship drew nearer. Jarin grimaced when the ship’s flag came into view, tattered and half-burned on the mast. Artus had taken a royal Zermes ship, which the captain swore he wasn’t going after. He said he was setting out for a Hataran merchant vessel, lest they attract the ire of the royal navy. But then, when had Artus ever kept his word?
The captain valued infamy more than he valued gold. As a pirate, that made him weak. Artus was driven to conquer and command and bring everything to heel, including the ocean. His arrogance was a threat to the entire clan. Jarin planned to neutralize that threat, but for the moment, he had to go along with the captain. When he got the chance, he’d send Artus below deck to be mauled by the siren.
The captain’s most trusted lackeys climbed rope ladders onto the Pandora, hauling crates of artifacts from the royal ship. Artus had already returned to his usual spot at the helm of the Pandora, laughing with Terrick, whose neck was stained with blood from the siren attack.
Jarin cracked the lid of one of the crates, finding a random jumble of artifacts inside: stone tablets, scrolls, brass instruments, and embroideries. Artus had received a tip-off about the shipment in a bar, the last time they docked at Klatos. Based on that tip-off, he mounted the attack. But for what?
“Jarin, my boy.”
Artus swaggered across the deck toward him, shoving crew members out of the way. As always, Fletch tailed him like a pet jackal. Berolt had been right about Artus’s mood. He grinned broadly, his gold tooth catching the sun, and spread his arms wide.
“I see you held down the ship in my absence,” he said, clapping Jarin on the back, like a father to his son. “Good lad.”
Jarin rubbed the back of his neck, nodding at the crate. “This is what we baited the wrath of the Crown for?” He picked up a burnished candlestick and turned it in his hand. “Looks like a pile of junk to me.”
“Ah.” Artus leaned in close, lowering his voice. The stench of stale tobacco washed over Jarin. “This is but the leftovers of the real feast.” He patted the pocket of his red and blue jacket. “Got myself an honest to gods’ treasure map. It’ll take me to the Amulet of Delphine, worth more than any amount of gold.”
The Seer Ferrante had predicted that Artus would pilfer such a trinket. A rare ocean jewel, he’d said, that would alter the fate of Jarin and the whole clan.
He folded his arms. “And what’s the amulet for?”
The captain wheezed with laughter. “It gives life.”
Jarin frowned. No trinket could grant life, could it? Perhaps Artus was misdirecting him.
But whatever the amulet was for, it couldn’t be good, since Artus wanted it. Jarin stayed far away from magic, if he could help it. Which, of course, he couldn’t. He carried magic around in his veins, against his will.
“Alright,” he replied. “I hope it’s worth having the royal fleet after us. We’ll have to set sail for the open waters right away.”
“Gods, you’re a sour one. Even more than usual.” He fixed Jarin with a shrewd eye. “What’s gotten into you? I’m sending Terrick and Lovel to scuttle the ship, along with everyone on board. No one left to tell the tale. It’ll be presumed lost at sea—a tragic accident. Happens all the time, ya know.”
“How many are still alive?” asked Jarin.
Artus waved his hand. “Dozen or so. Terrick and Lovel are keen to take care of ‘em, don’t you worry.”
Terrick and Lovel were selecting weapons from a chest with open excitement, arming themselves for the foul assignment. Blood-thirsty hounds. Anyone still alive on that royal ship would soon wish they weren’t, once that pair were set loose on them. The commander had to make sure that didn’t happen, and he’d have to be subtle about it, or Artus would become paranoid about Jarin undermining him again.
The captain had forbidden his crew from torturing and raping, but only in words. In truth, he turned a blind eye. He enjoyed the added fear that the exploits of scum like Lovel and Terrick evoked in people.
When Jarin overthrew Artus, Terrick and Lovel would be among the first to walk the plank. Or be thrown overboard—Jarin wasn’t picky about the details. May the weight of their sins drag them to the bottom of the ocean.
The Clan had once adhered to codes, and valued honor. But, it seemed the only men who survived the war with the sirens had been the most vicious. Half the crew were now little more than butchers. At the heart of the blackness was Artus himself. He needed to be rooted out and disposed of.
“I’ll take Drue to scuttle the ship,” said Jarin. “Be good for him to get his first blood.”
Artus shrugged and waved his hand. “Go ahead. Do it near Skull Cave and take the rowboat to Klatos. Meet us at the docks. We’ll set sail this evening.”
“You don’t still mean to go to Klatos?”
