“I’m sorry,” Tavi said.

Demos nodded. “She’s a cruel mistress. But we keep coming back to her. They knew what could happen.”

“The ship?”

“My ship is fine,” Demos said. Tavi didn’t miss the very quiet note of pride in his voice. “Rest of them, I don’t know.”

“Those two look damaged,” Tavi said, nodding out to the sea.

“Aye. Storms can take masts like a waterbuck cropping reeds.” Demos shook his head. “The larger ships had it bad in this one. The fleet’s witchmen were able to keep us from getting completely separated. Seas are calm enough, we might be able to send some flyers around, gather everyone in-once folks start waking up. Give it a couple of hours.”

Tavi ground his teeth. “There must be something I can do. If you like, get some rest, and I’ll keep an eye on-”

Demos shook his head. “Not on your life, my lord. Maybe you’re a mad genius at war, but you sail like cows fly. You aren’t commanding my ship. Not even in this pond.”

Tavi grimaced at Demos but knew better than to argue with the man. Demos had certain views about the order of the universe-simply put, that upon the deck of his ship he should be the foremost policy-making entity. Given that the Slive had survived the storm in fine condition when many of the other ships seemed to have been horribly mauled, Tavi supposed Demos’s opinion was not entirely without foundation.

“I’ve been lying around like a lazy dog for days,” Tavi said.

“Like a sick dog,” Demos said. He gave Tavi a direct look. “You don’t look good, my lord. The Marat woman was worried about you. Worked herself harder than any of us, trying not to.”

“She just got sick of my bellyaching,” Tavi said.

Demos smiled faintly. “I’ll wager your work will begin shortly, my lord. Then none of us will want to be you.”

“That’s shortly. I want to do something now,” Tavi said. He squinted around the ship. “The men are going to wake up hungry.”

“Like baby leviathans, aye.”

Tavi nodded. “Then I’ll be in the galley.”

Demos arched an eyebrow. “Set fire to my ship, and I’ll see you roasted alive before she sinks. My lord.”

Tavi started for the galley and snorted. “I grew up in a steadholt, Captain. I’ve worked in a kitchen before.”

Demos folded his arms on the ship’s railing. “If you don’t mind me saying, Octavian-you really don’t have any idea at all how to be a Princeps, do you?”

Men began stirring sooner than Tavi would have thought. Partly, that was due to the day’s growing swiftly colder, making sleep in still-damp shipboard clothing difficult. Partly, it was due to the minor injuries and strains associated with hard, dangerous labor. But it was due in large measure to their raw hunger, driving them from rest to fill their growling bellies.

The ship’s galley included a frost cabinet large enough to require a pair of coldstones, and he was surprised to see how much meat it stored. By the time the men began to rouse themselves, he’d managed to prepare a large amount of mash and sliced and fried four entire hams, in addition to the stacks of ship’s biscuit and gallons of hot, bitter tea. The mash wasn’t much clumpier than the ship’s cook normally made it, and the ham, while perhaps not of gourmet quality, was certainly in no danger of being undercooked. As Demos predicted, the crew dug in with abandon, while Tavi, just as the cook normally did, slapped food onto waiting plates as the men lined up.

He spent the time talking with each of the sailors, asking them about the storm, and thanking them for a job well done. The sailors, all of whom had become familiar with Tavi on their journey the previous year, spoke with him in familiar, friendly terms that never quite edged all the way into open disrespect.

The last people in line for food were Maximus, Kitai, and Magnus. The latter had a decidedly disapproving glare on his face.

“Not a word,” Tavi said quietly as Magnus approached. “Not a crowbegotten word, Magnus. I had to lay there like a bloody infant for more than a week. I’m in no mood to be scolded.”

“Your Highness,” Magnus said, rather stiffly and just as quietly. “I would not dream of doing so in public. For fear that it would lessen the respect due your office.”

Max stepped in front of Magnus without hesitation, seized a plate, and plunked it down on the counter next to Tavi. “Hey, cooky,” he said, yawning. “Give me a piece of ham that isn’t burned black. If you made such a thing.”

“The rats knocked these three onto the floor before they were finished cooking,” Tavi replied, loading Max’s plate. “But then the crowbegotten little things refused to eat them for some reason.”

“Rats are wise and clever,” Kitai said, putting her own plate down as Max collected his. “Which makes the meat suitable for you, Maximus.” She collected the plate and smiled at Tavi. “Thank you, Aleran.”

Tavi winked at her and returned her smile, then turned to Magnus.

The old Cursor lifted his eyes skyward, sighed, and picked up a plate. “Extra mash, please, Your Highness.”

“All right,” Max sighed, shutting the cabin door behind him. The big Antillan held up a small sheaf of paper and tossed it onto the small writing table in front of Magnus. “The Knights Aeris found another two dozen that had wandered astray, and they’ve changed course to rendezvous with us. Crassus says he thinks we’ve found every ship that came through the storm.”

Tavi exhaled slowly. “How many did we lose?”

“Eleven,” Magnus said quietly. “Eight of the Free Aleran, three belonging to the Legion.”

Eleven ships. With crews and passengers, more than two thousand souls, in all, lost to the fury of the storm.

“The Canim?” Tavi asked quietly.

“At current count, eighty-four,” Magnus said quietly. “Most of them transports carrying noncombatants.”

No one said anything for a moment. Outside, the mourning songs of the Canim, wild and lonely howls, drifted over the icy, placid sea from the dark ships.

“What condition are we in?” Tavi asked.

“The Legion transport ships have sustained considerable damage,” Max replied. “Shattered masts, splintered hulls, you name it.”

“Most of those tubs are still in danger of going under,” Demos said. “We’ll be lucky to make half our normal sailing speed. If the next storm catches us in the open sea, our losses will be a great deal worse.”

“According to Varg’s letter,” Tavi said, gesturing with another piece of paper, “the Canim ships aren’t much better off than we are. Also according to Varg, the storm has taken us several hundred miles out of our way, north along the Canean coast-hence the calm seas, the cold, and all the ice that we’ve seen in the water. He says that there is a port we might be able to reach nearby. He did not, however, specify our exact location.”

“Give the overcast a few days to clear, and we can read the stars,” Demos said quietly.

“I don’t think fortune-telling is the answer here,” Max said. “No offense, Captain.”

Demos gave Max a level look, then glanced at Tavi.

“He isn’t talking about fortune-telling, Tribune,” Tavi said. “Sailors over deep water can guide their course by taking a measurement of the positions of the stars.”

“Oh,” Maximus said, chagrined. “Well. One of our Knights Aeris could take someone up above the cloud cover. It lifts a couple of thousand feet up.”

“There isn’t a windcrafter alive that could hold steady enough for an accurate measurement, Tribune,” Demos said, without rancor. “Besides, we use points of reference on the ship to accomplish it. So unless they can take the Slive with them…”

“Oh,” Max said. “Probably not.”

“In any case, we can’t afford to wait, my lord,” Demos said. “This time of year, another storm is only a matter of time. We might have a few days. We might have hours.”