“Safe?” Zaira let out a bark of a laugh. “I make everything unsafe. I’m danger salt—add me to anything, and I make it more interesting.”

“I can’t deny that seems an apt assessment.”

Ahead of us, Marcello stopped at the crest of the rocky spit as suddenly as if the wind had closed a gate in his face.

“What’s that in the water?” Fear bleached all the color from his voice.

Jerith and Balos hopped up beside him and looked down on the other side of the rocks. Balos clapped a hand to his mouth; Jerith swore.

Zaira and I exchanged glances and ran to catch up with them.

Zaira crested the rocks first, her skirts whipping behind her. She took one look down into the water and gave a decisive nod, as if confirming a suspicion.

“Dead,” she said.

I scrambled up on the low line of rocks with the others, and saw what they’d been looking at.

It bobbed against the rocks, caught there by the rising tide, black water lapping against brilliant scarlet wool. I caught a glimpse of dark hair spreading like floating seaweed, bloated white fingers, and the gleam of gold trim on a too-familiar uniform jacket. Then I had to look away, clasping my arms across my lurching stomach.

“Grace of Mercy,” I whispered.

“He’s one of ours,” Marcello said grimly. “A Falconer.”

I couldn’t bring myself to help as Marcello, Zaira, and Balos hauled the body out of the water. When Zaira called me a wilting pansy, I merely nodded, lips tight, and kept my eyes averted.

At least I’d kept my dinner in. Jerith staggered back from the woods to my side, wiping his mouth, even paler than usual.

“Oh, that poor bastard,” he groaned.

“Who is he?” I asked, throwing a nervous glance to where the others bent over the corpse. “Did you recognize him?”

“No, but only because he was facedown.” Jerith sank to the sand and rested his forehead on his knees. “I don’t have a problem with dead people. Seen dozens of them. Blood, terrible burns, I don’t care. But not in the water. Not days in the water like that.”

I nodded an emphatic agreement. Thank the Graces the wind blew across my face, carrying away the death-tainted air.

The others rose from the corpse. Balos remained over the dead man, his head bowed. Marcello walked past us to the water’s edge, his face drawn and haunted, and swished his hands in the clean salty lagoon. The pain pulling his handsome features taut cut me like a knife. I started toward him.

Zaira stomped up to us, wiping her palms on her skirts.

“Well,” she said, “that’s a bloater if I ever saw one. A week in the water, at least.”

Jerith lifted his head, swearing. “A week? Lieutenant!”

Marcello straightened. “I know. It’s too long. His Falcon must be dead, too.”