We slip beneath the shelter of the dock. Sure enough, the plunge of the ground is precipitous; it feels like walking along the side of a very steep hill. I clutch the pilings for support, and barnacles slice at my fingertips.
We weave through the pilings into chest-deep water. At last a shape manifests in the gloom. It looks like a small fishing boat—or maybe a large rowboat—with enough benched seating for eight people.
Hector lifts Mara over the edge, and the boat tips treacherously as she topples over the bench before gaining her seat. Hector pulls me in front of him.
“Hands on the side,” he says in my ear, gripping my hips. “When I lift, push up and swing your legs over.”
He lifts; I scramble. My left knee knocks hard against the edge, but I make it in. I slide over on the bench to make room for Storm, who grumbles as Hector gives him a boost. Then Hector and Belén vault over the side.
Hector unties the thick rope holding us to the piling and coils it into the prow. He pulls one oar from the floor; Belén grabs the other. With a dip and a swish, Hector maneuvers us away. Belén follows his lead, using his oar as a pole against the pilings. Together they weave us out from under the dock and into open sea.
I take a deep breath, relieved to have gotten this far. The night is warm, and I know my chill will be gone soon, even wet as I am. Before us, the moonlit harbor is dotted with ships and smaller boats. Surely one more won’t cause a second glance?
At my feet is a rolled-up sailcloth, a large net, a floppy wide-brimmed hat, and a wooden crate filled with fishing supplies: a dagger, bone hooks, twine, weights. We’ve commandeered a trawling boat.
I whisper, “Should we pretend to fish or something?”
“In deeper water, maybe,” Hector says. “If we’re out here for a long time.”
I’m about to ask him just how long he thinks we’ll be trapped in this boat when my nose pricks with something sharp and my neck itches, as if I’m being watched. I twist around to look at the city we leave behind. My hand flies to my mouth.
It’s in flames. Clouds of grungy smoke roll into the sky, their bottom edges glowing red-orange.
No wonder the sky was so bright. No wonder we got away so easily. My plan to create chaos worked too well. “What have I done?” I whisper. Mara turns to see what has caught my attention and lets out a little “Oh!” of dismay.
“We did what we had to do to get away,” Belén says. “It’s just a few buildings.”
Looking closer, it seems that only three, maybe four, structures are on fire. Still, I worry for the people who lived and worked there. Are they burning in the flames? Choking on smoke? Even if they did get out safely, I have destroyed their livelihoods. The King’s Inn has stood on that spot for over a century.
Is it really worth it, to destroy someone’s life to save my own? Even if I am the queen?
I turn my back to the flames and squeeze my eyes closed. Now that we are away from the shelter of the breakwall and the dock, I hear shouting, maybe screaming. What if they can’t contain the blaze?
I consider ordering Hector to turn us around, to face this thing I’ve done, to make it right. But now is not the time. I must find the way that leads to life and the zafira; my country depends on it. I just hope that once we’ve found it, my list of wrongs to right is not too long.
We row through the bay, weaving between hulking ships. Figures move around on decks and climb through the rigging, even though it is not yet dawn. Shadowy shapes stand at the rails, gazing toward the conflagration. Surely they will turn toward us at any moment, notice that we don’t belong.
But they don’t. As we leave the bay and aim south along the shore, the sky brightens to dark indigo, still fading to deepest black along the watery horizon. Shadowy but glorious estates dot the rolling hills and cliffs above us, with vined trellises and marble statues and sandstone terraces. Soon we pass beyond even these. The waters are calm, and not a single ship goes by. We are alone, and very small.
Hector’s breathing grows labored. As the sun peeks over the hills, its light catches on the sweat of his brow and shoulders. He closes his eyes, hardens his jaw, and keeps rowing.
Belén struggles too. Sweat runs from his hairline, mixes with dried blood and dirt, coating his face in a gruesome patina of red and black. There must have been a lot of blood. Cauldrons of it, for some to remain even after his dip under the sewer grate.
I wonder when they last slept? Certainly not last night; Belén was tracking an Invierne spy, and Hector was making arrangements for an escape that came too soon.
“Hector.” I lean forward and put a hand on his wrist.