Did I dare claim a second amplifier for myself? I had taken the sea whip’s life—that meant its power belonged to me. But if the scales functioned like Morozova’s collar, then the dragon’s power was also mine to bestow. I could give the scales to one of Sturmhond’s Heartrenders, maybe even Tolya, try to take control of him the way the Darkling had once taken control of me. I might be able to force the privateer to sail us back to Novyi Zem. But I had to admit that wasn’t what I wanted.

I took another sip of wine. I needed to talk to Mal.

To distract myself, I cataloged the trappings of Sturmhond’s cabin. Everything was gleaming wood and polished brass. The desk was littered with charts, the pieces of a dismembered sextant, and strange drawings of what looked like the hinged wing of a mechanical bird. The table glittered with Kerch porcelain and crystal. The wines bore labels in a language I didn’t recognize. All plunder, I realized. Sturmhond had done well for himself.

As for the captain, I took the opportunity to really look at him for the first time. He was probably four or five years older than I was, and there was something very odd about his face. His chin was overly pointy. His eyes were a muddy green, his hair a peculiar shade of red. His nose looked like it had been broken and badly set several times. At one point, he caught me studying him, and I could have sworn he turned his face away from the light.

When we finally left Sturmhond’s cabin, it was past midnight. I herded Mal above deck to a secluded spot by the ship’s prow. I knew there were men on watch in the foretop above us, but I didn’t know when I’d have another chance to get him alone.

“I like him,” Mal was saying, a little unsteady on his feet from the wine. “I mean, he talks too much, and he’d probably steal the buttons from your boots, but he’s not a bad guy, and he seems to know a lot about—”

“Would you shut up?” I whispered. “I want to show you something.”

Mal peered at me blearily. “No need to be rude.”

I ignored him and pulled the red book out of my pocket. “Look,” I said, holding the page open and casting a glow over Sankt Ilya’s exultant face.

Mal went still. “The stag,” he said. “And Rusalye.” I watched him examine the illustration and saw the moment that realization struck. “Saints,” he breathed. “There’s a third.”

CHAPTER 6

SANKT ILYA STOOD barefoot on the shore of a dark sea. He wore the ragged remnants of a purple robe, his arms outstretched, his palms turned upward. His face had the blissful, placid expression Saints always seemed to wear in paintings, usually before they were murdered in some horrific way. Around his neck he wore an iron collar that had once been connected to the heavy fetters around his wrists by thick chains. Now the chains hung broken by his sides.