“Sturmhond does things his own way.”

“And they don’t … bother you?”

Tamar grinned, her white teeth flashing against her bronze skin. She tapped the gleaming shark’s tooth hanging around her neck, and I realized it was an amplifier. “No,” she said simply.

“Ah.”

Faster than I could blink, she pulled yet another knife from her sleeve. “This comes in handy, too,” she said.

“However do you choose?” I breathed faintly.

“Depends on my mood.” Then she flipped the knife over in her hand and offered it to me. “Sturmhond’s given orders that you’re to be left alone, but just in case someone gets drunk and forgetful … you do know how to take care of yourself?”

I nodded. I didn’t walk around with thirty knives hidden about my person, but I wasn’t completely incompetent.

She dunked her head again, then said, “They’re throwing dice above deck, and I’m ready for my ration. You can come if you like.”

I didn’t care much for gambling or rum, but I was still tempted. My whole body was crackling with the feeling of using my power against the nichevo’ya. I was restless and positively famished for the first time in weeks. But I shook my head. “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself. I have debts to collect. Privyet wagered we wouldn’t be coming back. I swear he looked like a mourner at a funeral when we came over that rail.”

“He bet you’d be killed?” I said, aghast.

She laughed. “I don’t blame him. To go up against the Darkling and his Grisha? Everyone knew it was suicide. The crew ended up drawing straws to see who got stuck with the honor.”

“And you and your brother are just unlucky?”

“Us?” Tamar paused in the doorway. Her hair was damp, and the lamplight glinted off her Heartrender’s grin. “We didn’t draw anything,” she said as she stepped through the door. “We volunteered.”

* * *

I DIDN’T HAVE A CHANCE to talk to Mal alone until late that night. We’d been invited to dine with Sturmhond in his quarters, and it had been a strange supper. The meal was served by the steward, a servant of impeccable manners, who was several years older than anyone else on the ship. We ate better than we had in weeks: fresh bread, roasted haddock, pickled radishes, and a sweet iced wine that set my head spinning after just a few sips.

My appetite was fierce, as it always was after I’d used my power, but Mal ate little and said less until Sturmhond mentioned the shipment of arms he was bringing back to Ravka. Then he seemed to perk up and they spent the rest of the meal talking about guns, grenades, and exciting ways to make things explode. I couldn’t seem to pay attention. As they yammered on about the repeating rifles used on the Zemeni frontier, all I could think about were the scales in my pocket and what I intended to do with them.