The old man scratched his balding head. “Let me see, about two silvers, I think.”
Probably an exaggeration, but the purse could easily spare two silvers. Peter handed the customer his coins. “Here you are.”
He shared a drink with his long-time customer, then the man toddled back upstairs to bed, enjoying himself immensely at getting a free room and a handsome sum in bet winnings.
Peter deducted the amount needed for the sailor’s meal and drink. A goodly amount remained. If Martin couldn’t be convinced to take it back, Addie would use the windfall, providing for those in the neighborhood who’d fallen on hard times or helping mage-borns leave the city.
Sitting at the table he’d shared with the handsome Martin, Peter stared out into the night. A priest of the Father wandered by, followed by two more. No business remained open at this hour. Where were they going?
The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck prickled as he recalled the priest’s warning. He had no desire at all to step out into the night. Usually, he enjoyed a walk after work. Every self-preservation instinct he owned screamed at him not to go out. He rose, darting outside just long enough to secure the shutters over the windows, then returned to the safety of the tavern, locking the door behind him.
Whether mage abilities spoke to him or his imagination ran wild, something outside needed to stay out. But what of the priests, in their brown head-to-toe clothing? Were they safe?
The one he’d met in the alley hadn’t been afraid.
He snuffed all the lanterns save one, banked the fire, and made his way to his room with the remaining light. Martin was out there tonight. Was he safe?
Something told Peter that Martin could take care of himself. The money in the pouch spoke of his skill.
The lantern flickered, casting sinister shadows on the walls and the one tiny window of Peter’s bedchamber. Surely he didn’t need shutters over a glass scarcely larger than his head, up this high.
His bed creaked when he sat down, and he stared out the window, recalling the porthole on theSeabird, how he’d grown up in that little cabin, his father keeping him safe. He longed for the sea breezes, the slapping of waves against the hull, the gentle swaying lulling him to sleep.
He snuffed the lantern and lay down. It had been a long day. Spinning thoughts kept him awake until the wee hours of the morn.
Peter was moving, carried between two of the crew, staring up at the frantic eyes of his father. Why was Da afraid? Nothing scared him. The crewmen placed Peter on his bunk. White-hot pain shot through his shoulder. He’d have screamed if he’d had the breath.
Blood soaked his clothes. His, or someone else’s? He’d seen someone die, right? The crew left. His father stayed. The captain should be on deck. They were under attack.
Weren’t they?
His father spoke low, but not to Peter. Maybe he prayed. Only, Peter had never known his father to pray. Peter gasped for breath, every inhale pure agony.
When his father finished speaking, he left and closed the door.
Someone else was there. Who? How badly was Peter injured? Just a scratch, right? Soon healed into a puckered scar.
The someone sat on the floor beside the bunk, crooning, wiping Peter’s chest with a damp cloth. The pain dulled to a faint throbbing. He looked up. The wall-mounted lantern that he rarely used cast shadows and light over the face of a young man, eyes as blue as a summer sky.
“I…” Peter began.
“Shh… Rest. It’s going to be all right. Everything is going to be all right.”
Peter slept fitfully, swimming to the surface of consciousness, only to plunge down again. The presence never left, calming him, wrapping him in a sense of security. Nothing bad could happen, not with this man nearby.
There had been blood. Lots of it. And pain. A shaft of wood sticking from Peter’s body.
He blinked his eyes open and pressed his fingers to his shoulder. A scar. Only a scar. His clothing that night had been drenched in drying blood, as were his blankets. Someone else’s, maybe? How many of the crew had they lost?
A young man slept on the deck by the bunk, one arm over the side, hand clinging to Peter’s.
Peter squirmed to see who was there.
Sky blue eyes stared up at him.
Peter bolted upright, flinging the covers aside and patting his shoulder. A scar. Just a scar. He searched the blankets, but couldn’t see in the dark. The lantern flared to life. He wouldn’t even bother to question at this point.
No blood, though sweat drenched his skin. Sitting on the side of the bed, he buried his face in his hands.
