One

In Sartorias-deles’s long history, only once have we seen pirates enjoy the protection of the strongest naval power in the world. That summer in the year 3910, some of the most notorious pirates made increasingly daring raids—such as Gaffer Walic’s attack on a trade convoy not two days outside of Khanerenth, a kingdom that had once possessed the leading pirate-fighting navy in the southern seas. But civil war had halved their resources.

The pirates won after an extremely hard night of fighting, and thus were more angry than triumphant, more weary than celebrative as they transferred their (few) prisoners and what cargo hadn’t been destroyed in the long battle.

On Walic’s flagship Coco, one of the prisoners woke to a crashing headache that caused his empty stomach to heave, and bile scalded the back of his throat. He whispered the Waste Spell, and the burn vanished.

He let out a slow, shuddering breath as sweat cooled on his forehead.

The relief lasted three heartbeats. Someone was whispering into his ear. “Wake up, wake up. Inda, listen. You have to wake up.”

Marlovan! The language of home.

“Inda. You must act stupid. The Gaffer will be calling for you soon. Hear me? Act stupid.”

Inda opened his eyes. His headache crashed again. He could barely see. A shaft of slanting sunlight filtering through shrouds outlined in ruddy morning color the contours of sharp-cut cheekbones and jaw-line, a straight shoulder, an arm. Green eyes. Familiar green eyes.

“Who are you?” he mumbled through bruised lips.

“Fox.”

“I know you,” Inda observed. Memory images cut through the pain-haze like shards of glass: the fight on the deck of the trade ship he’d been hired to protect, surrounded by the fallen; more and more pirates swarming on board.

Those derisive green eyes—the last thing he saw before being struck unconscious with the hilt of a knife.

Struck, not killed.

And wasn’t there an older memory? He could not think.

“We met at my home,” Fox whispered in an urgent undervoice. “Before you started the academy. But you must not know me here. Nor use your name. Or Marlovan. Gaffer Walic came after you—you call yourself Inda Elgar, right? He wanted to sell you to the Venn. He thinks you died on the trade ship.”

“Gaffer . . .?” Inda began, but talking hurt.

“Walic. Captain. He wants more hands, but not leaders, understand? Indevan Algara-Vayir is dead. You are not from Iasca Leror. You did not lead the marine defense company.”

Inda stared, in far too much pain to catch the sense of that swift run of words. “Marines. Some live?”

“A handful. Look at me. Listen. We need you,” Fox whispered, fighting impatience and desperation. He had to make Inda understand the danger he was in—they all were in—but Walic would be sending someone to fetch them soon.

He was right.