Page 27 of Carousel

It’s just Dezeeves and I left. Drake has boarded the ship, and Vikemy must have slithered off back to whichever dark hole he sprang from.

“Yes,” I reply, because I get the feeling Dezeeves is not a man you can get away with lying to.

His face is devoid of emotion. “You’re smarter than that.”

“Have my family been told I’m leaving?”

“I understand they’ve been told a variant of the truth.”

“That’s a no, then.”

Dezeeves rolls his pointy shoulders. “For the best. Don’t you think?”

“I would have liked to say goodbye.”

“For the best,” he repeats.

The walk to the ship seems to take far longer than it should. I’m unsteady as I bow my head to enter it and slip beside Drake on the narrow wooden bench behind Cosmer.

The ship is a lot like the wrecked ship, but of course, everything is intact and unbroken. The clunky copper pipes in the walls. The complex timepiece and barometer. The gauges, dials and levers set in the control table. The table is lit up with yellow lights – but they’re not from flames. I can’t stop staring at them blinking like fireflies.

“Lartosi laser light,” Dezeeves explains, as he squeezes in beside Cosmer. “Incredible invention. Light and heat without flame – invaluable on our flammable ships, I’m sure you’ll agree. And can be used to propel even the largest of ships.”

Wonder rises in me, light as air.

But so does rage, heavy as lead.

My life in Hevalla is primitive compared to the technology in front of my eyes. Even the Palace had nothing like this.

Why is this technology from Lartos being used for the sole purpose of war?

A whirring sound starts up from somewhere beneath me and I notice Cosmer’s hands are now in leather gloves. They’re tight around a large wooden wheel not dissimilar to a sea ship’s helm.

The sight makes me realise something I probably should have realised sooner.

“You’re piloting?”

“I am.” He glances over his shoulder at me and flashes me a quick, sly smile. “Unless you’d like to take the wheel?”

“But I thought Dezeeves⁠—”

“Ah,” Dezeeves says, white eyebrows wriggling. “I’m afraid not. I was never a very good pilot. Gave me the worst vertigo.”

“But you’re a captain!” I blurt out.

“A very different skillset is required for that job, I assure you. I have over a hundred pilots in my crew. Just think about all those egos!” He chortles. “And these things! I’ve seen even a passing seagull send a hawker like this one into a frenzy.”

He raps his knuckles on the wall of the ship.

It clinks. Like a cup.

My last moments alive are going to be spent in a glorified tin can.

Drake must notice the confidence draining out of me at the speed of urine from a full bladder, because he tells me, “He’s joking. Hawkers and termites can be shaky, because of their speed and size. But they’re perfectly safe.”

There isn’t much opportunity left for conversation, because the ship is rocking and clanking. The whirring that had begun a moment ago is now drowning out everything else. It’s like being out on a choppy sea, the churn of waves around me.

The ship jolts violently, and instantly, I cry out. My eyes clenched shut, I grip the edge of the bench like it’s the only thing that might save me.