faster. I forced myself to think of Gemma—how she navigated through packed-tight bodies—and did the same. Elbowing my way to the railing, I leaned over it to breathe in air that someone else hadn’t just exhaled.
If I stayed next to the drill well, I wasn’t completely immersed and I could manage it. Then I noticed that the surfs around me were all armed with tridents, daggers, bows, and sheaths of arrows tipped with shark teeth and sharpened spiral shells. Clearly prepared for trouble. Their primitive weapons made me wonder again how Hadal had acquired a state-of-the-art submarine.
Speakers around Rip Tide crackled and then blared the Commonwealth national anthem. On the decks below, voices rose, singing along with gusto. But surrounding me—silence. I stole a look at the surfs along the railing. If I hadn’t had an urgent reason to stay on the sundeck, I would have made a hasty exit. The surfs’ expressions were nothing short of murderous, with their jaws clenchedshut. Considering that they had no representative in the Assembly to speak or vote on their behalf, I could understand why they might not feel very patriotic.
When the anthem finished, talk on the sundeck started up again immediately, so I inched along the railing with my ears open. Long minutes went by and all I overheard were people making side bets on “first blood” and “first splash.”
To my left, a male voice said, “Hey, Levee, who’d ya bet on? I don’t know which one to go with.”
I was just maneuvering by a surf in a wheelchair when a man behind me replied in a low voice, “I can tell you who not to bet on. Drift.”
I froze, not daring to turn and reveal that I was listening.
“What’s going on?” the other man asked quietly.
“Can’t say here. Too big a crowd.”
“Bad?”
I didn’t hear the other’s reply. Maybe he did it with a nod.
“Know anything about the contender?” the first guy said loudly as if they’d been talking about the match all along. “Twenty-to-one odds makes him mighty tempting.”
“Bet there’s a reason for those odds and it ain’t good. These boxers pad their wins. But this surf’s write-up is a total blank.”
Chum, they weren’t going to say anything more about Drift. Not here anyway. And I’d learned nothing. Sucking in my breath, I turned and found myself facing a man whose sun-bleached dreadlocks were piled on his head like a turban. “I can tell you about the contender,” I said.
His tunic was sleeveless, and tattoos of the sun blazed on his biceps. He crossed his arms so that his hand rested on the hilt of the cleaver he had tucked into his belt. “Why would a fisherman tell me anything?”
“Because you have information I want.”
The surf grew very still as if he knew exactly what I was talking about. “Listening in, were you?” he asked softly. Suddenly he yanked the cleaver from his belt and thrust it toward my face. “Where I come from, nosy people lose their noses.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Boxed in by the crowd, with the surf’s cleaver hovering an inch from my nose, I had no way to escape. I shot a look at the man beside the furious surf. With his eel-skin pants and boots, I guessed he was a whale-hand from one of the marine dairy townships. His shirt hung open to reveal bloody bandages wrapped around his torso. At least he didn’t look offended, too.
“The challenger is a friend of mine,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though my heart was pounding in my ears. “And here’s a tip: You’d be a fool not to play those odds.”
The first surf said nothing, clearly still deciding whether to let me live.
But the second man spoke up. “You must be real buddies,” he scoffed with a wave of his arm, “if you’re stuck up here in the nosebleed section with the rest of us scum.”
“I wanted to see how it looked from up here. I can go down anytime I want.”
The guy laughed, clearly amused by me, only to stop short and touch his bandaged stomach
If I stayed next to the drill well, I wasn’t completely immersed and I could manage it. Then I noticed that the surfs around me were all armed with tridents, daggers, bows, and sheaths of arrows tipped with shark teeth and sharpened spiral shells. Clearly prepared for trouble. Their primitive weapons made me wonder again how Hadal had acquired a state-of-the-art submarine.
Speakers around Rip Tide crackled and then blared the Commonwealth national anthem. On the decks below, voices rose, singing along with gusto. But surrounding me—silence. I stole a look at the surfs along the railing. If I hadn’t had an urgent reason to stay on the sundeck, I would have made a hasty exit. The surfs’ expressions were nothing short of murderous, with their jaws clenchedshut. Considering that they had no representative in the Assembly to speak or vote on their behalf, I could understand why they might not feel very patriotic.
When the anthem finished, talk on the sundeck started up again immediately, so I inched along the railing with my ears open. Long minutes went by and all I overheard were people making side bets on “first blood” and “first splash.”
To my left, a male voice said, “Hey, Levee, who’d ya bet on? I don’t know which one to go with.”
I was just maneuvering by a surf in a wheelchair when a man behind me replied in a low voice, “I can tell you who not to bet on. Drift.”
I froze, not daring to turn and reveal that I was listening.
“What’s going on?” the other man asked quietly.
“Can’t say here. Too big a crowd.”
“Bad?”
I didn’t hear the other’s reply. Maybe he did it with a nod.
“Know anything about the contender?” the first guy said loudly as if they’d been talking about the match all along. “Twenty-to-one odds makes him mighty tempting.”
“Bet there’s a reason for those odds and it ain’t good. These boxers pad their wins. But this surf’s write-up is a total blank.”
Chum, they weren’t going to say anything more about Drift. Not here anyway. And I’d learned nothing. Sucking in my breath, I turned and found myself facing a man whose sun-bleached dreadlocks were piled on his head like a turban. “I can tell you about the contender,” I said.
His tunic was sleeveless, and tattoos of the sun blazed on his biceps. He crossed his arms so that his hand rested on the hilt of the cleaver he had tucked into his belt. “Why would a fisherman tell me anything?”
“Because you have information I want.”
The surf grew very still as if he knew exactly what I was talking about. “Listening in, were you?” he asked softly. Suddenly he yanked the cleaver from his belt and thrust it toward my face. “Where I come from, nosy people lose their noses.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Boxed in by the crowd, with the surf’s cleaver hovering an inch from my nose, I had no way to escape. I shot a look at the man beside the furious surf. With his eel-skin pants and boots, I guessed he was a whale-hand from one of the marine dairy townships. His shirt hung open to reveal bloody bandages wrapped around his torso. At least he didn’t look offended, too.
“The challenger is a friend of mine,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though my heart was pounding in my ears. “And here’s a tip: You’d be a fool not to play those odds.”
The first surf said nothing, clearly still deciding whether to let me live.
But the second man spoke up. “You must be real buddies,” he scoffed with a wave of his arm, “if you’re stuck up here in the nosebleed section with the rest of us scum.”
“I wanted to see how it looked from up here. I can go down anytime I want.”
The guy laughed, clearly amused by me, only to stop short and touch his bandaged stomach
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