Wyatt beamed a grin. “Look who else is on duty,” he told them, pointing at the quarterdeck, where Sentinel Thranic, Mr. Beryl, Dr. Levy, and Bernie Defoe stood talking.

They slipped around the forecastle, moving quickly to the bow. Looking over the rail, Hadrian saw six men rowing toward a nearby light.

“Another ship,” Royce muttered.

“Really?”

“A small single-mast schooner. No flag.”

“Is there anything in the longboat?” Hadrian asked. “If that’s payment going to—”

Royce shook his head. “Just the crew.”

They watched as the sound of the oars faded, then waited. Hadrian strained, peering into the darkness, but all he could see were the bobbing light of the little boat and the one marking its destination.

“Boat’s coming back,” Royce announced, “and there’s an extra head now.”

Wyatt squinted. “Who would they be picking up in the middle of the night from Delgos?”

They watched as the longboat returned. Just as Royce had said, there was an additional man—a passenger. Wrapped in ship’s blankets, he was small and thin, with a long pasty face and wild, white hair. He looked to be very old, far too old to be any use as a sailor. He came aboard and spoke to Thranic and Dr. Levy at length. The old man’s things were gathered and deposited beside him. One of the bags came loose and two weighty leather-bound books spilled onto the bleached deck. “Careful, my boy,” the old man cautioned the sailor. “Those are one of a kind and, like me, are very old and sadly fragile.”

“Gather his things and take them to Dr. Levy’s quarters,” Thranic ordered. Glancing toward the bow, he stopped abruptly. He glared at them, licking his thin lips in thought, then slowly approached. As he did, he held his dark cloak tight, his shoulders raised to protect his neck from the cold wind. Between this and his stooped back, he resembled a scavenger bird.

“What are all of you doing on deck? None of you are part of the larboard watch.”

“Off duty, sir,” Wyatt answered for them. “Just getting a bit of fresh air.”

Thranic peered at Hadrian and took a step toward him. “You’re the cook, aren’t you?”

Without thinking, Hadrian felt at his side for the hilt of his absent sword. Something about the sentinel made him flinch. Sentinels were always scary, but this one was absolutely chilling. Returning his gaze was like staring into the eyes of restrained madness.

“You joined this voyage along with …” Thranic’s eyes shifted to Royce. “This one—yes, the nimble fellow—the one so good at climbing. What’s your name? Melborn, isn’t it? Royce Melborn? I heard you were seasick. How odd.”

Royce remained silent.

“Very odd, indeed.”

“Sentinel Thranic?” the old man called, his weak voice barely making the trip across the deck. “I would rather like to get out of the damp wind, if I could.” He coughed.