‘But you gave me these clothes,’ she heard herself say, and the words seemed small.
Tom started to say, ‘Violet—’
Later, she would think that there had been warning signs – the men on the pier – the tense looks of the sailors – the patrols with pistols – even the tightness in Tom’s mouth.
Now the only warning was Tom jerking his head up.
A sudden jolt shuddered the ship, sending her stumbling sideways. Violet heard a shot ring out and turned to see the sailor who had fired it, white-faced, his pistol shaking.
Then she saw what he was shooting at.
Swarming over the side of the ship, up grappling ropes and planks, came men and women dressed in a white starburst livery. Their faces were noble, like something out of an old storybook. Their features were varied, as though they came from many different lands. They seemed to rise up out of the mist, and they didn’t have modern weapons – they were armed like knights, with swords.
Violet had never seen anything like them before, like a myth brought to life.
‘Stewards!’ screamed a voice, jolting her out of her reverie, and chaos broke loose, the unfamiliar word spreading like wildfire. Stewards? Violet thought, the old-fashioned moniker ringing in her ears. Tom and Captain Maxwell reacted as if they knew what it meant, but most of Simon’s men were just running for weapons or drawing pistols and immediately starting to shoot at the attackers, the deck filling with thick smoke and the choking smell of sulphur and saltpeter from the guns.
Violet was knocked back and saw everything in a jumble. Three of the attackers – Stewards – swung up around the bowsprit. One of them closer to Violet leaped the rail with freakish ease. Another pushed one of the half-ton crates out of her way with one hand, which was impossible. They’re strong, Violet thought with shock. These Stewards in their white starbursts had a strength and speed that wasn’t – that couldn’t be – natural, as they evaded the first round of pistol shots and started to fight, Simon’s men letting out screams and cries in the smoke as the Stewards began to cut them down—
She felt Tom’s hand close on her shoulder.
‘Violet.’ Her brother’s voice, strong. ‘I’ll cut them off here. I need you in the hold to protect Simon’s cargo.’
‘Tom, what’s happening? Who are these—’
‘The hold, Violet. Now.’
Swords. No one used swords anymore, Violet thought, watching in shock as a male Steward with high cheekbones calmly hewed down the ship’s bosun, while a female Steward with blonde hair ran her blade through the chest of one of the sailors with guns.
‘Find Marcus,’ the blonde Steward ordered, the others fanning out, obeying her authority.
Tom was stepping out to face them.
Violet needed to go. The deck was a jumble of sight and sound, the fighting pushing closer. She was rooted to the spot.
‘Simon’s Lion,’ said the blonde Steward, while another beside her said, ‘He’s just a cub.’
Lion? thought Violet, the strange word echoing in her, even as she realised they were talking about her brother.
Tom had picked up the branding iron and was holding it like a crowbar. Amid the gunfire and the swords it looked foolish, but Tom stood out in front of the others, facing down the line of Stewards, as though he was willing to take them on alone.
Tom said, ‘If you know we took Marcus, you know you’re not invincible.’
The blonde Steward laughed. ‘You think one Lion can stop a dozen Stewards?’
‘One Lion killed a hundred like you,’ said Tom.
‘You’re not like the Lions of old. You’re weak.’
The Steward’s sword flashed a silver arc. It was fast – so fast. Violet saw only an instant of shock on the blonde Steward’s face before Tom smashed the sword out of her hand, then drove the crude iron bar through her chest. Then he was pulling out the bar and rising to face the others.
Tom wasn’t weak. Tom was strong. Tom had always been strong.
Violet stared at him. There was blood on Tom’s face, blood on the iron, blood spattered over the white of his shirt, turning it red. With his auburn curls a halo around his head, he did look like a lion.
He threw her a single look.
‘Go, Violet. I’ll follow you down when I can.’
She nodded blindly. She went, scrabbling backward, then ducking and running across the planking, as the ship shuddered again as though it had been hit. Above her, the rigging swayed and shook. A barrel rolled uncontrollably across the decking. More gunfire; Violet raised her arm to her mouth so that she didn’t choke on smoke. Her heel skidded on blood. She glimpsed Captain Maxwell loading a pistol, then careened sideways to avoid three of Simon’s men struggling with a Steward, before she made it through the haze into the hold.