Neither the fire-tender nor I speak as Ipass, content to let our brief eye contact convey a well-manneredgood morning.

I pause as I reach the edge of the first ringof tents opposite ours, because I sense movement in one of theshelters, one I know too well, because a red flag flutters wildlyabove it. Gard’s tent. The Rider war leader. My leader. It’s notGard, however, who steps out.

Remy.

His black skin’s a shadow against the brownof his tent. Through the fog I catch his smile.

Moving on.

I turn to continue on to the stables, angryat the clutch of embarrassment I feel in my gut after running fromhim yesterday.

His hand on my arm stops me. “Let go,” Ihiss.

His hand darts back and his smile fades, butthen reappears seconds later. “Heading to the stables?” heasks.

“No.” Yes. Argh. Why does he continue tofollow me around? “Sorry, I really don’t have time to talk,” Isay.

“Let me guess, training,” he says, the warmthof his smile quirking into a smirk.

I frown. “Yeah, so,” I say. “Riders may beborn, but great Riders are made.” Another of my mother’s sayings,one I’ve always loved, have always believed in, but which nowsounds ridiculous on my lips.

Remy raises an eyebrow. He thinks I’mridiculous. “Don’t you ever stop training, you know, to just be agirl?”

My frown deepens into a scowl. “No…and I’mnot a girl, I’m a Rider.”

He laughs loudly, breaking the code ofmorning silence just as the edge of the sun breaks the horizon,spreading pink to the east and graying the dark cloudsoverhead.

Instinctively, we both look up. When we dropour gaze once more, he says, “Trust me, you’re a girl, too.” Idon’t like the way my hands sweat when he looks me up and down.

“I’ve got to find my mother,” I say, turningaway from Remy and toward the stables, striding away quickly.

“I thought you weren’t going to the stables,”Remy says, pulling up alongside me.

Right. So much for my sharp mind. “I’m not,”I lie. “Not really. I’m just seeing if my mother’s there.”

“Well, Sadie-who’s-not-going-to-the-stables,I’ll walk with you while you don’t go to the stables,” Remy says,flashing that annoying smirk of his once more.

“Fine,” I say, “as long as you don’tspeak.”

Ignoring me, he says, “What do you thinkabout your father’s vision?”

I can’t stop myself from flinching. Was I thelast to know? Probably, considering the first time my father triedto tell me, I started a fight with him and ran away.

“I’m going with them,” I say, snapping mymouth shut as soon as the words come out. Why did I say that? Idon’t even have a horse yet. I haven’t finished training.

“You are?” Remy says. “But I thought yourceremony wasn’t for another few months.”

“They’ll make an exception,” I say, firmingup my voice, as if I’m on my way to discuss it with Remy’s fatherright now.

Remy laughs, grabs my hand, stops me. “You’reso full of horse dung, Sadie. My father doesn’t makeexceptions.”

I grit my teeth and wrench my hand fromRemy’s grip. Anger bursts through me like a crashing wave.

Because I know Remy’s right.

Chapter Eleven

Huck

When I finally leavemy cabin, full of brown gruel that tasted even worse than itlooked, the sun is well beyond its peak, the sky a dark bloody red.Right away, I wish I hadn’t hidden in there for so long.

It only made things worse. Noweveryone stares at me as I walk along the quarterdeck,trying to look like a leader. But no matter how high I raise mychin or how straight I keep my back, I feel like a boy pretendingto be a lieutenant, all the way to the clean, blue uniform, whichfeels more like a costume than a sign of my position.

A test, I remember. Maybe my last chance toprove myself to my father.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hobbswatching my every move, his usual frown-smile plastered on hisface.

I ignore him and look around, taking it allin. The scene is consistent with when I arrived: men and womenalike, sleeping, some sipping bottles of grog, some telling jokes,laughing and slapping their knees. One woman struggles to clip wetclothes to a line strung up between two masts. A few men areworking, too, swinging the tattered sails around to catch the windproperly, but they’re struggling because the wind is swirling,changing direction so quickly that using sails is anear-impossibility. Why doesn’t anyone say something? Iwonder. The captain, one of the other lieutenants, somebody…

“Where’s the captain?” I ask myself.

“In his favorite spot,” a voice says frombehind.

I shudder and turn quickly.

Barney stands nearby, looking off at the farend of the quarterdeck, near where Hobbs is standing, stillwatching me. But my steward isn’t looking at Hobbs, his gaze islocked on a swinging bundle to the left of him. A salt-yellowedhammock rocks back and forth in the wind, wisps of smoke curling upfrom where the captain lays, pipe in his mouth, eyes closed, eitheroblivious or disinterested in the complete lack of competence onthe decks of his ship.

Ignoring Hobbs’ dagger-stares, I march on upto the captain and tap him on the shoulder. He awakes with a start,his pipe falling from his lips and onto his grungy uniform. Hescrabbles for it, manages to pluck it off his chest, but not beforeit leaves a black circle burned into his shirt.

“What in the Deep Blue?” he says, his tiredeyes flashing to mine. So he was asleep, setting a goodexample for his men. “Something I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Well, I, uh, I just thought…”

“Spit it out, boy!” he says, not toonicely.

When he calls me boy, something snapsin me, something that evens my words out, allows them to flow withconfidence. “We’ve fallen behind the other ships,” I say. I add,“Sir,” as an afterthought.

“And?” he says.

Dumbfounded, I gawk at the captain in hishammock, not a care in the world, except maybe not getting burnedby his bloody pipe. We sail for our livelihood, to fill our netswith fish, to reach our next safe landing zone to find fresh waterto sate our dry throats. We’ve done it for years, since the timethat the first Soakers constructed the first ships out ofdriftwood, broken from homes during what everyone believed was theend of days. We sail to survive. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t hecare?

“And…we need to catch up,” I say.

“Then catch up!” he says, sticking his pipebetween his lips before rolling over.

I want to kick him, to pound my fists againsthim, to tell him he’s the worst captain ever and that his ship isthe laughingstock of my father’s fleet. But that’s the tantrum of achild. For the first time in my life I wonder if it’s all worthit—the ships, the sailing, the fishing. We could settle downsomewhere, like the Stormers, live off the land. There’s plenty ofuninhabited land along our fishing route. We could pick a spot andjust take it, leave the ships behind forever.

But even the thought sends my heart sinkinginto my stomach. Leave the ships? Leave the sea? Settle down? It’sjust not in us—it’s not in me. My people were made for the sea andI know we’ll never leave it. So that means…

I glance over at Hobbs, who’s laughing. Hemakes a crying motioning with his fists against his eyes. Thecaptain’s words ring in my ears—Then catch up!—while Hobbs’mocking burns in my chest.

If they won’t do anything, then I will.

I stomp across the quarterdeck, down thesteps, enjoying the sound my boots make on the wood. Solid,confident. My footsteps have never sounded like that before.

I ignore the sleepers and the drinkers—fornow, anyway.

First, I approach one of the men strugglingwith the sails. “Seaman!” I holler.