The men at the capstan dispersed, leaving Hadrian looking around for something to do. Royce descended to the deck beside him, neither one certain of his duty now that the ship was under way. It did not matter much, as the lieutenant, the captain, and Temple were all busy on the quarterdeck. The other hands moved casually now, cleaning up the rigging, finishing the job of stowing the supplies, and generally settling in.

“Why didn’t we ever consider sailing as a profession?” Hadrian asked Royce as he moved to the side and faced the wind. He took a deep, satisfying breath and smiled. “This is nice. A lot better than a sweaty, fly-plagued horse—and look at the land go by! How fast do you think we’re going?”

“The fact that we’re trapped here, with no chance of retreat except into the ocean, doesn’t bother you?”

Hadrian glanced over the side at the heaving waves. “Well, not until now. Why do you always have to ruin everything? Couldn’t you let me enjoy the moment?”

“You know me, just trying to keep things in perspective.”

“Our course is south. Any clue where we might be going?”

Royce shook his head. “It only means we aren’t invading Melengar, but we could be headed just about anywhere else.” Someone arriving deck side caught his attention. “Who’s this now?”

A man in red and black appeared from below and climbed the stair to the quarterdeck. He stood out from the rest of the crew by virtue of his pale skin and silken vestments, which were far too elegant for the setting and whipped about like streamers at a fair. He moved hunched over; his slumped shoulders reminded Hadrian of a crow shuffling along a branch. He sported a mustache and short goatee. His dark hair, combed back, emphasized a dramatically receding hairline.

“Broken-crown crest,” Hadrian noted. “Seret.”

“Red cassock,” Royce added. “Sentinel.”

“At least he’s not Luis Guy. It’d be pretty hard to hide on a ship this size.”

“If it was Guy”—Royce smiled wickedly—“we wouldn’t need to hide.”

Hadrian noticed Royce glance over the side of the ship at the water, which foamed and churned as it rushed past.

“If a sentinel is on board,” Royce continued, “we can assume there are seret as well. They never travel alone.”

“Maybe below.”

“Maybe disguised in the crew,” Royce cautioned.

To starboard, a sailor dropped his burden on the deck and wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag. Noticing them standing idle, he walked over.

“Yer good,” he said to Royce. “No man’s beaten Jacob aloft before.”

The sailor was tan and thin, with a tattoo of a woman on his forearm and a ring of silver in his ear.

“I didn’t beat him. We landed together,” Royce said, correcting him.

“Aye, clever that. My name’s Grady. What do they call you?”

“Royce, and this is Hadrian.”