* * *

I WANTED NOTHING MORE than to pull the copy of the Istorii Sankt’ya from my pocket and spend an hour studying the illustration of Sankt Ilya, but Tamar was already waiting to escort me to her quarters.

Sturmhond’s schooner wasn’t at all like the sturdy merchant ship that had carried Mal and me to Novyi Zem or the clunky whaler we’d just left behind. It was sleek, heavily armed, and beautifully built. Tamar told me that he’d captured the schooner from a Zemeni pirate who was picking off Ravkan ships near the ports of the southern coast. Sturmhond had liked the vessel so much that he’d taken it for his own flagship and renamed it Volkvolny, Wolf of the Waves.

Wolves. Stormhound. The red dog on the ship’s flag. At least I knew why the crew were always howling and yapping.

Every inch of space on the schooner was put to use. The crew slept on the gun deck. In case of engagement, their hammocks could be quickly stowed and the cannon slotted into place. I’d been right about the fact that, with Corporalki on board, there was no need for an otkazat’sya surgeon. The doctor’s quarters and supply room had been turned into Tamar’s berth. The cabin was tiny, with barely enough room for two hammocks and a chest. The walls were lined with cupboards full of unused ointments and salves, arsenic powder, tincture of lead antimony.

I balanced carefully in one of the hammocks, my feet resting on the floor, acutely conscious of the red book tucked inside my coat as I watched Tamar throw open the lid of her trunk and begin divesting herself of weapons: the brace of pistols that crossed her chest, two slender axes from her belt, a dagger from her boot, and another from the sheath secured around her thigh. She was a walking armory.

“I feel sorry for your friend,” she said as she pulled what looked like a sock full of ball bearings from one of her pockets. It hit the bottom of the chest with a loud thunk.

“Why?” I asked, making a circle on the planks with the toe of my boot.

“My brother snores like a drunk bear.”

I laughed. “Mal snores, too.”

“Then they can perform a duet.” She disappeared and then returned a moment later with a bucket. “The Tidemakers filled the rain barrels,” she said. “Feel free to wash if you like.”

Fresh water was usually a luxury aboard ship, but I supposed that with Grisha in the crew, there would be no need to ration it.

She dunked her head in the bucket and ruffled her short dark hair. “He’s handsome, the tracker.”

I rolled my eyes. “You don’t say.”

“Not my type, but handsome.”

My brows shot up. In my experience, Mal was just about everyone’s type. But I wasn’t going to start asking Tamar personal questions. If Sturmhond couldn’t be trusted, then neither could his crew, and I didn’t need to grow attached to any of them. I’d learned my lesson with Genya, and one shattered friendship was enough. Instead, I said, “There are Kerch in Sturmhond’s crew. Aren’t they superstitious about having a girl onboard?”