Witchsign. Den Patrick

changes everyone.’

      Any romantic notions of sailing Steiner entertained were quickly drowned. He’d not had a chance to take in his surroundings before being forced into the hold. There were no seats, only old crates, the smell of salt water and darkness. The sole chance to fend off the spiteful chill was to choose from a selection of mangy blankets, though lice roamed the folds of the fabric causing children to squeal as they shook them loose. It was difficult to count just how many captives were confined in the gloomy hold. Steiner had not expected the ship to groan and creak and struggled to keep the alarm from his face. The motion of the sea did nothing for his hangover and he settled down between two crates and closed his eyes.

      Invigilation began at age ten and continued once a year until a child left school at sixteen. Many children dropped out of school long before then, required to attend the Invigilations all the same. Steiner had heard tell of cunning parents who sought to keep their children off the school registers in remote villages, far from the prying eyes of the Synod. None of their efforts mattered in the end. A vast network of the Synod’s clergy scoured the continent, sending their finds north and west until the children fetched up in Cinderfell, escorted by soldiers.

      Steiner recalled his father’s words from the previous night. The thing is, the children sent to the island aren’t executed.

       At least we don’t think so.

      ‘I’m not dead yet,’ said Steiner to no one in particular.

      He was answered by a whimper and opened his eyes to find a boy of ten squatting down and clutching himself. He had a hint of Shanisrond blood in him; his delicate eyes were at odds with his plump, olive-skinned cheeks.

      ‘Hoy,’ said Steiner. ‘Get yourself a blanket.’

      The boy shook his head.

      ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘M-Maxim.’

      ‘Why don’t you get a blanket?’

      Maxim raised a hand towards a pile of crates where a blond-haired boy sat atop an improvized throne. ‘He won’t let me.’

      Steiner pushed himself to his feet and rolled his shoulders. He felt scores of eyes upon him and realized he was the eldest by a couple of years, and certainly he was the largest.

      ‘Wait here,’ he said to Maxim. The boy nodded and his bottom lip quivered with misery. Steiner crossed the hold, stepping over huddles of children until he stood before the pile of crates. The boy who sat at the summit had nestled among a dozen blankets, looking impossibly smug.

      ‘And who might you be?’ Steiner asked with arched eyebrow.

      ‘I am Aurelian Brevik; my father is the richest man in Helwick. I won’t be staying long.’ He smiled. ‘Once my father has paid off the Empire I will return home.’

      ‘Is that so, son of the richest man in Helwick?’

      ‘Of course.’ Aurelian pouted. ‘There’s been a mistake. I can’t possibly have witchsign, not like these disgusting creatures. Not like you.’

      Steiner guessed Aurelian was around sixteen years old. He had eyes as cold as the north wind and was dressed in sheepskins dyed red, splendid and expensive. His heavy boots were fine and new.

      ‘How about you hand over some of the blankets?’ suggested Steiner.

      ‘I think not,’ replied Aurelian.

      ‘Listen to me,’ said Steiner, voice low. ‘I’m hungover, I’ve just lost everyone I’ve ever cared about, and I didn’t pack much in the way of patience.’

      ‘Am I supposed to be intimidated?’ sneered Aurelian. He stood up but the smile slipped from his face. The throne had given him the impression he was taller than Steiner. They stood face to face and Steiner knew Aurelian wouldn’t back down. Money never did.

      ‘Why don’t you crawl back to your side of the ship like the peasant you are and I’ll forget—’ Aurelian got no further as Steiner’s fist took him on his left eye and nose. He fell back against his improvized throne and released a whimper, holding a hand to the source of his pain.

      ‘You dare strike me?’

      ‘I dare just fine,’ replied Steiner. ‘And I’ll dare again if you don’t shut your stupid face.’

      Steiner took the bundle of blankets from the throne of crates and began handing them out to the children that lacked them.

      ‘Shake it out. Get rid of the lice,’ he said to one child. ‘Calm yourself and dry your eyes,’ he said to another. ‘Here you go.’ He passed a blanket to Maxim and before long he’d drawn an audience of fifteen imploring faces, all sensing protection was at hand and drifting towards it.

      ‘Ugh,’ managed Aurelian from across the hold, but he held his tongue.

      Steiner settled down among his adopted charges, massaging his aching knuckles, then cleared his throat.

      ‘All right, stop crying. I know it’s a sad business being taken from your families and all. And I know you’re scared. Hel, I’m scared too.’ More faces appeared at the huddle.

      ‘How will they kill us?’ asked a painfully thin girl, perhaps eleven summers old.

      ‘I don’t know,’ replied Steiner. He wanted to promise them they wouldn’t be killed at all, but it was a promise he couldn’t give in good faith. ‘All I know is that we’re being sent to an island called Vladibogdan. Stay together, work together, you’ll need each other if we’re to survive this.’

      It was strange to have such a rapt audience. He’d spent his life being the son of the blacksmith, or the brother of the strange girl. He’d largely been ignored by the teachers at school. No one had paid him much mind before Kristofine. His face contorted as he thought of her, thought of never seeing her again. He shook his head and cleared his throat.

      ‘And I don’t want to see any more of this kind of foolishness.’ He gestured towards Aurelian. ‘All we’ve got is each other now.’

      The younger children settled down and the older children spread word through the hold to other pockets of children. Maxim wriggled beside Steiner and fell asleep in his lap. Kjellrunn had been much the same when she’d been five and six. The memory of it brought tears to Steiner’s eyes, tears of frustration and tears of loss.

      ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Kjell?’ he whispered. For long moments he sat, head slumped, resigned to his misery. The feeling of being watched pressed against his awareness and he raised his head to find Romola peeking over the edge of the hold. She was not smiling as she had done in Cinderfell, nor did she give any indication she recognized him.

      The Spøkelsea was not the serene expanse of water Steiner had hoped for. The ship lurched and rocked with each wave that broke against the hull. A few of the children began retching and the hold filled with the unmistakable scent of vomit.

      ‘Frøya save me.’ Steiner covered his nose. ‘I had to choose today for a hangover.’

      Maxim looked up with sleepy eyes. ‘Wha?’

      ‘Nothing, but if you throw up on me I’ll toss you overboard.’

      Maxim nodded with a solemn expression that said he would do the same if their places were reversed. The boy wriggled closer and went back to sleep.

      ‘How long does it take for a frigate to travel twenty miles anyway?’ muttered Steiner, just as a member of the crew climbed down from the deck above. She was a hard-looking woman with a black headscarf and a faded tunic the colour of mud. It was her britches Steiner liked the most: broad stripes in black and white.

      ‘I like your britches.’

      ‘Thanks. You Steiner?’

      ‘Am I in trouble?’

      ‘You tell me.’ The sailor shrugged.