The liquid burned down his throat and tasted like rancid potatoes. His empty stomach lurched, threatening to expel what he'd just swallowed. The sailors laughed again, and the youngest with salt-crusted blond hair grabbed an empty box and pushed it toward Leesil.

"You'll get used to it," he said good-naturedly, while shuffling the cards. "You play Jack o‘ Knives?"

Leesil had been playing Jack o‘ Knives when Chap was a pup still peeing on the floor.

"Hmmm, I may have," he said. "Tell me the rules again?"

While the rules were explained, he took another long pull on the gourd.

He lost the first game on purpose with a small bet, and his third pull on the gourd actually made him feel better. The burning lessened, and there was no desire to retch. His head felt lighter, and he suddenly didn't care that Magiere wanted him out of the cabin. Why should he care?

And he took another gulp.

He won the second hand, making it look like a spot of luck. No one seemed suspicious, and the one-eared sailor handed him the gourd again. Leesil knew better than to drink while gambling, but whatever was in the gourd drowned some of the nausea. He'd been thrown out of his cabin and deserved a little indulgence.

His head began to swim, and his fifth hand of cards held nothing of note.

Leesil decided to bluff, and built the pot up with a few extra coins to scare off those with too little to lose. The youngest sailor called him and took half the money Magiere had given him.

No matter. He'd just win it back.

He took another drink from the gourd.

Alone in the cabin, lying in the lower bunk while Chap dozed on the floor, Magiere puzzled over Leesil's outburst.

Though he was seasick, he wasn't given to childish fits of temper. He'd snapped at her and stormed out. That wasn't like him.

He was the type to keep arguing until she wanted to strangle him or stuff a wad of wet wool in his mouth to shut him up. She'd briefly considered following him and then changed her mind. Was he worried about the coming days and too proud to admit it? She quickly rejected that thought. Leesil didn't fear anything he could fight.

Magiere unbelted her falchion and laid it on the floor next to Chap, who watched her with miserable crystalline eyes.

"Oh, don't be so tragic," she said. "He's just seasick. He'll be fine once we reach Bela."

She rolled over and ignored the little voice in the back of her mind.

Leesil knows you're avoiding him… feels you pushing him away.

No. He didn't like being fussed over. Her mother-hen ministration annoyed him while he finished healing in the last month. Why else would he have disappeared all those mornings? Perhaps he needed a bit of time by himself.

The cabin was so small that all she saw in the low lantern light was faded and bleached wood. She'd meant to turn out the lantern but thought better of it, in case Leesil should return. Shifting about on the old, flattened bunk pad, she tried to get comfortable and half closed her eyes.

Why exactly did he want wine? She hadn't seen him touch a drop while he was healing, not even on the tavern's opening night.

Magiere scrunched her eyelids closed and tried to push her petulant partner from her thoughts. Sleep would make everything fade, and things always looked better in the morning. That was what her Aunt Bieja always said, and from time to time, it was true. The bunk felt hard beneath her back, so she rolled to her side again, willing slumber to take her.

Chap growled softly from the floor.

"Shut up," she muttered. "It's hard enough to sleep without your noises."

She considered getting up and going after Leesil and then heard the door creak open. He was back, and unexpected relief washed over Magiere. Hopefully he'd crawl into the upper bunk and rest, so she sat up, prepared to suggest just that.

Magiere tensed and froze.

One of the tattered dockworkers who'd boarded the schooner with them in Miiska stared in at her with equal surprise. There was a knife in his hand.

He'd probably expected to find her asleep or out of the room so he could rob the traveling chest. So many people in town were struggling, and sometimes failing, in the months since Rashed's warehouse burned.

But in that breath of moment, he never once looked toward the chest or anything else in the room except her.

Chap growled, already on his feet, with soft jowls curled back over sharp canine fangs. Magiere grabbed the falchion from the floor.

Any would-be thief with half a set of wits would have turned and run at the sight of a wide-awake, armed occupant and a large, angry hound. Even the desperate wouldn't risk serious injury for unknown profit. Instead, this one rushed her.

Caught off guard, Magiere had no time to unsheathe her weapon. The other two dockworkers from the boarding party were right behind him, pushing their way through the narrow door. Her eyes widened as the leader raised his dagger up, ready to strike, and he kicked out at her sword.

Magiere pulled the falchion out of the way. Bungling dockworkers they might be, but this was no robbery. She raised the sheathed blade with both hands as a bar to block his strike and kicked out into the man's gut.

The dockworker fell back against the pair behind him. There was a moment's jostling as the other two struggled to push him aside, but he tripped over the chest and toppled into the room's corner.

Chap launched at the men in the doorway, colliding with the second one, who was quite portly. Forepaws striking the dockworker's chest, he toppled against the third, who backpedaled into the hall. Both dog and man collapsed in a tangle at the foot of the bunks.

Chap began barking full-throated. Not the eerie wail for hunting or the vicious utterance used to keep someone cornered, but deep, long woofing sounds as if calling for attention.

Magiere assessed the leader toppled in the corner. Medium height, medium build, with plain brown hair and eyes, and clothes that were faded and worn. There was nothing distinctive about him. He was the type whom everyone forgot immediately. For some reason, this disturbed her.

It had been, a long while since she'd fought a living opponent, and chasing down would-be thieves in the streets wasn't the same. When she fought the undead, strength, speed, and rage poured into her. That was her advantage even if it unbalanced her self-awareness. She was at a loss without the rise of her dhampir side, and uncertainty made her hesitate too long.

The leader drew himself up, eyes narrowed, and rushed her again. She jerked the sheathed falchion up to guard herself, and he half spun in the small space, kicking the blade from her hand.

When he charged for real, Magiere rolled from the bunk, hoping he'd land in her place and she could come up behind him. He did land on the bunk, but she hit the floor hard and, before she could spring back up, he rolled off the bunk on top of her.

Chap's snarl came from somewhere near the door, followed by the frightened outcry of the man he'd pinned.

Magiere's attacker struck down with his knife. She snatched his wrist and pulled it to the side in midswing, adding her own strength to its downward momentum. He looked shocked when his blade stuck into the floor next to her left shoulder. She slammed her forehead into his face.

Blood spurted from his nose across Magiere's chest as his head snapped back. She followed with her right fist against his mouth, and he tumbled backward, shoulders striking the edge of the lower bunk.

Magiere twisted left on the swing's momentum and jerked the knife free from the floor. By the time the man rebounded, she had the blade in motion as she swung back. It slid fast and deep through his throat.

His hand instinctively flew to his neck. Blood running from his nose across his jaw mingled with dark red seeping between his clenched fingers, and then it began leaking from between his lips.