They fought toward the brightness. The stern deck had been cranked open to the skies. Flames and shredded flaps of balloon filled the skies outside. By now, the back of the Pony had been shoved up into the ruins of the airbag above as the bow sank. Another boom shook the ship and the Pony fell faster. The flames and scraps of the balloon momentarily whooshed higher, exposing the open sky.
Everyone lost their footing—except for Shiya.
“There!” Rhaif hollered, and pointed toward the open deck.
Shiya understood. She snatched Pratik and Rhaif by their arms and half dragged, half carried them up the last of the tilted deck. They reached the draft-iron stanchions, aligned across the opening, where the ship’s sailrafts were normally berthed.
Only two of the six were left.
One of the rafts took advantage of the opening and shot out the back of the ship, propelled by the same mechanism as the giant crossbows below. The small raft, which looked like an enclosed skiff, arced high into the sky—then a small balloon burst forth from a dome on top, catching the raft before it plummeted like a stone into the sea far below. Tiny jets of alchymical fire spat out its stern, guiding the craft away from the burning Pony.
Shiya aimed them toward the last skiff. Its stern door was still open. A few stragglers rose from among those sprawled on the floor. One tried to crawl into the sailraft, only to fall back, clutching his neck. He toppled to the side, revealing a hiltless blade impaled in his throat.
Pratik saw now that those draped on the ground behind that raft weren’t dazed.
They were dead.
A shout rose from inside. “’Bout time you got here!”
Shiya hauled them close enough to reveal Llyra crouched in the empty hold of the raft. She carried a short bloody sword in one hand and a silver throwing knife in the other. She hadn’t abandoned them, only fled in advance to secure one of the sailrafts and hold it for them at the point of her sword.
“In here now,” she ordered.
Shiya tossed them into the hold and followed inside. The only other occupant was a blue-liveried crewman, seated at the raft’s wheel and pedals. He gaped in horror at what had just boarded his craft.
As soon as they were all inside, Llyra pointed her dagger at him. “Go or die.”
Rhaif swung toward the pack of desperate people behind the raft. A few carried children on their shoulders. “Wait. We can take—”
The raft jerked forward hard, nearly throwing them out the stern door. Pratik managed to grab hold of a hanging loop of leather. Still, he lost his legs and hung breathlessly for a spell. Shiya had snatched Rhaif by the collar to keep him inside.
The skiff sailed high into the air, then tipped its nose downward.
Pratik still had not breathed—not until he heard a blast above. The balloon unfurled, snapped taut, and caught the plunging craft. Pratik’s weight slammed him firmly to the deck. He coughed with relief.
Through the open door, he watched the Pony plummet away from them, its balloon trailing smoke through the air. It finally crashed into the sea with a great flume of water. The flaming ruins of the balloon followed and draped across the waves, where it continued to burn.
Grateful to have survived, Pratik turned to Rhaif. The thief’s face was red with fury, directing his anger at Llyra, who had sheathed her sword but kept her knife in hand.
“We could’ve saved a dozen more,” he said savagely, waving a hand back at the ruins of the Pony.
“Maybe, but I had to account for the weight of your bronze treasure.” Llyra cast an appraising glance toward Shiya. “Her heft alone is surely that of several men.”
Regrettably, Pratik recognized she was right. The raft’s drover fought his wheel and worked his pedals, his brow pebbled with sweat. Even with just the four of them aboard, Shiya’s weight was clearly a problem. Viewed through the thin window in front, the skiff was slowly sinking toward the seas below. The drover pulled a lever near his knee and flames spat out the back, just under the open door behind them.
Pratik retreated from that alchymical fire.
“We’re not going to make it back to the coast,” the drover concluded with a grimace as he fought to slow their descent.
Pratik searched the seas. The crashing dive of the Pony had taken the wyndship well over the Bay of Promise. Worse, their escape had shot their tiny skiff even farther out to sea.
The drover used his maneuvering flame to turn them toward the distant coastline. Still, the raft sank lower toward the sea.
“We’re too heavy,” the drover warned.
“What did I tell you?” Llyra drew Pratik’s attention back. She had her sword out again, pointed at them. Its tip swung between him and Rhaif. “Looks like we must lighten our load.”
34
RHAIF LIFTED HIS palms toward Llyra, which only drew her sword’s attention his way. He scrambled for an argument to keep everyone on board. He considered ordering Shiya to toss the guildmaster off the ship, but to voice such a demand aloud would end any hope of accommodation. And in truth, he doubted Shiya would obey. Her will and actions had proven too capricious in the past.
Still, this thought offered him an argument.
Rhaif placed a hand on his chest and spoke rapidly, as if his life depended on it—which it did. “Listen, Llyra. Shiya will only mind me. If you hope to abscond with her, you’ll need her cooperation, which means you’ll need me.”
She shrugged and turned her blade toward Pratik, who backed a step.
Rhaif shifted in front of the Chaaen. “And surely you know I had a reason in freeing Pratik, chaaen-bound to Rellis im Malsh, a bastard who you know traded in alchymical secrets.”
This was a lie, but he suspected she would not admit to being ignorant of something he claimed to know.
He pressed the matter and pointed to Pratik. “This is his chief alchymist. He knows more about ancient mysteries and arcana than nearly anyone. He was the one who has kept Shiya moving, using alchymicals only he can craft to keep her fired and fueled.”
Rhaif turned for acknowledgment, lifting his brows at Pratik, hoping the man would carry this lie forward.
The Chaaen understood and crossed his arms. “Creatures such as Shiya are known to a few in the Southern Klashe. My master keeps a librarie of great import at his palacio in Kysalimri, stacked with the ancient tomes, some written shortly after Pantha re Gaas. The librarie is even visited by the Imri-Ka’s Dresh’ri.”
“The Forbidden Eye,” Llyra translated with a squinted expression of distaste.
Rhaif understood. Such a cabal was rumored to dredge through the ancient past, seeking dangerous knowledge. They were also said to employ cruel and bloody methods, even sacrificing infants, to achieve their ends.
Rhaif studied Pratik, wondering how much of what he had just revealed was true. He knew it was difficult for a Chaaen to lie. So, he suspected there must be some level of truth to Pratik’s story.
Llyra reached the same conclusion and lowered her blade. “Then what do you propose we do?”
Rhaif was ready for this question. He pointed out the window. “We might not be able to reach the Hálendiian coast to the north, or even the swamps to the south, but the cliffs of Landfall are nearer at hand. With the wind at our back, we should be able to glide our way over to Cloudreach.”
“To the east,” Pratik mumbled, glancing at Shiya.