Kara.”
She blushed even deeper, nodded, then headed for the stairs.
Maklavir picked up the trousers again with a sigh.
The ship suddenly lurched to the left. There was a series of shouts from above deck.
Maklavir looked up quizzically. “What the devil?” He stood, folding the trousers up and heading for the stairs.
The deck was a rush of activity. Sailors scrambled up and down the rigging, and the merchant captain shouted out a stream of orders interlaced with curses from the quarterdeck.
Kara stood off to one side, her red hair tossing and blowing in the wind.
Maklavir looked over at her. “What on Zanthora is happening here?” He looked up at the sky. “Is there a storm brewing?”
Kara braced her feet as the vessel turned even harder through the choppy water. “I don’t know. No one’s answered any of my questions.”
“Well,” said Maklavir under his breath, “we’ll just see about that, won’t we?” He turned and headed up the stairs to the quarterdeck.
“Maklavir, wait—” Kara called out behind him.
He ignored her and stepped up beside the helm.
The merchant ship’s captain, an older man with a weather-stained jacket and lopsided cap, was handling the wheel himself. He gave Maklavir an irritated look. “What do you think you’re doing? All passengers need to clear off the deck—”
“Now look here,” said Maklavir in his most imperious voice. He grabbed his feathered cap with one hand, holding it snug on his head in the strong wind. “I think you owe me an explanation. Why are we turning?” He glanced down at the compass fixed near the wheel. “I may not have gotten top marks in geography, but I know which direction Redemption is, and we’re headed the wrong way.”
“You stupid landlubber,” the captain fumed. “You want an explanation?” He thrust a calloused finger off to the right. “There’s your reason.”
Maklavir turned around.
A ship was just visible on the horizon. It seemed to be coming right at them.
Maklavir raised his hand over his eyes, still holding onto his cap with the other. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Well, I’m afraid that I don’t really—”
“Tuldor’s blessed whiskers!” the captain cursed. “Are you blind as well as stupid? Look again.”
Confused, Maklavir tried to make out what he was looking at.
That’s when he noticed a black flag streaming out from the approaching ship’s mast.
“You need me to spell it out for you?” The captain wheezed. “ Pirates .”
“You’re out of uniform.” Olan gave a quick glance over the buff coat and militia uniform that Kendril was wearing. “Or is it even your uniform any longer?”
Kendril swept his gaze over the five Ghostwalkers in the room before him.
Tomas gave an embarrassed nod towards him.
Kendril looked at the chestnut-haired woman, and the slouching man against the wall. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting all your cronies, Olan.”
The Ghostwalker commander jerked a thumb at the woman. “Yvonne, Staff specialization.” He slung his thumb over towards the blonde-haired man. “Renaald, Sword specialization.”
“Well, well,” said Kendril drily. “You’ve got one of each, it seems.”
Olan turned his cold gaze back on Kendril. “Now answer my question. Where’s your uniform?”
“Actually,” said Kendril in a dangerously soft voice, “I think I’ll be the one to ask questions in my own fort. What are you doing here?”
Tomas stepped away from the wall. “ What are we doing here ? Come on, Kendril, you can’t be that obtuse.”
Callen looked down at the table, and refused to meet Kendril’s eyes.
Olan continued to glare right at Kendril, as if his gaze would burn right through him.
Renaald eyed Kendril callously, like a falcon studying a mouse.
Yvonne folded her hands on the table in front of her. “You have not contacted anyone in the Order for more than four weeks, Kendril. All attempts at communication with you have
She blushed even deeper, nodded, then headed for the stairs.
Maklavir picked up the trousers again with a sigh.
The ship suddenly lurched to the left. There was a series of shouts from above deck.
Maklavir looked up quizzically. “What the devil?” He stood, folding the trousers up and heading for the stairs.
The deck was a rush of activity. Sailors scrambled up and down the rigging, and the merchant captain shouted out a stream of orders interlaced with curses from the quarterdeck.
Kara stood off to one side, her red hair tossing and blowing in the wind.
Maklavir looked over at her. “What on Zanthora is happening here?” He looked up at the sky. “Is there a storm brewing?”
Kara braced her feet as the vessel turned even harder through the choppy water. “I don’t know. No one’s answered any of my questions.”
“Well,” said Maklavir under his breath, “we’ll just see about that, won’t we?” He turned and headed up the stairs to the quarterdeck.
“Maklavir, wait—” Kara called out behind him.
He ignored her and stepped up beside the helm.
The merchant ship’s captain, an older man with a weather-stained jacket and lopsided cap, was handling the wheel himself. He gave Maklavir an irritated look. “What do you think you’re doing? All passengers need to clear off the deck—”
“Now look here,” said Maklavir in his most imperious voice. He grabbed his feathered cap with one hand, holding it snug on his head in the strong wind. “I think you owe me an explanation. Why are we turning?” He glanced down at the compass fixed near the wheel. “I may not have gotten top marks in geography, but I know which direction Redemption is, and we’re headed the wrong way.”
“You stupid landlubber,” the captain fumed. “You want an explanation?” He thrust a calloused finger off to the right. “There’s your reason.”
Maklavir turned around.
A ship was just visible on the horizon. It seemed to be coming right at them.
Maklavir raised his hand over his eyes, still holding onto his cap with the other. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Well, I’m afraid that I don’t really—”
“Tuldor’s blessed whiskers!” the captain cursed. “Are you blind as well as stupid? Look again.”
Confused, Maklavir tried to make out what he was looking at.
That’s when he noticed a black flag streaming out from the approaching ship’s mast.
“You need me to spell it out for you?” The captain wheezed. “ Pirates .”
“You’re out of uniform.” Olan gave a quick glance over the buff coat and militia uniform that Kendril was wearing. “Or is it even your uniform any longer?”
Kendril swept his gaze over the five Ghostwalkers in the room before him.
Tomas gave an embarrassed nod towards him.
Kendril looked at the chestnut-haired woman, and the slouching man against the wall. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting all your cronies, Olan.”
The Ghostwalker commander jerked a thumb at the woman. “Yvonne, Staff specialization.” He slung his thumb over towards the blonde-haired man. “Renaald, Sword specialization.”
“Well, well,” said Kendril drily. “You’ve got one of each, it seems.”
Olan turned his cold gaze back on Kendril. “Now answer my question. Where’s your uniform?”
“Actually,” said Kendril in a dangerously soft voice, “I think I’ll be the one to ask questions in my own fort. What are you doing here?”
Tomas stepped away from the wall. “ What are we doing here ? Come on, Kendril, you can’t be that obtuse.”
Callen looked down at the table, and refused to meet Kendril’s eyes.
Olan continued to glare right at Kendril, as if his gaze would burn right through him.
Renaald eyed Kendril callously, like a falcon studying a mouse.
Yvonne folded her hands on the table in front of her. “You have not contacted anyone in the Order for more than four weeks, Kendril. All attempts at communication with you have
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