A front of white clouds looming to the southwest told of land up ahead. Not Laku Island, the next stop Keranta intended for Arnol and his fleet, but a sign that they were on the right heading. Not long ago, Arnol had assumed that true terror was the open sea, of bottomless depths and monstrous beasts of which God only knew. That was before the fleet entered this archipelago. Now what kept him from sleep in the twilight of his cabin was not the expanse of water stretching to all horizons, but its sudden constriction; each day brought with it the dread of hidden reefs, sudden tides, doldrums, spurs of rock that no Corastian had ever charted before. In this the claimant to Lewangwati was irreplaceable, as he was in achieving Arnol’s own goals of revenge, but that too made him dangerous.

Down below on the main deck, sailors from half of Corastia were hard at work on some nautical thing or another; Arnol paid them to know what it all meant so that he could think instead on the greater share of glory. But first, the more pressing concern: Keranta, the claimant king himself. He cut an impressive figure standing on the forecastle, his gaze given to the diminutive island in the distance. Half a head taller than Arnol, in form like one of the fine old Corastian statues in Vau, and stern of face: the kind of man that other men would follow into battle. Arnol supposed he was one of those men himself, though in a different fashion. He only hoped such qualities were enough for a second son of Arcine to find some purchase in this place, until such time that the new king of Lewangwati outlived his usefulness.

Then it would all be his.

Arnol called over Lati to his place leaning on the aftcastle railing. The translator joined him with the tinkling of gold rings and necklaces of precious shells, and once more Arnol’s thoughts were drawn away to his prize.

“How may I serve?” Lati asked. Even years among Arcinans had not done away with the clipped accent that reminded Arnol so much of the man of whom he wished to speak.

He nodded in Keranta’s direction.

“Most impressive, no?” Arnol asked. “He has led us to one victory at Nubi Island already, and I do not doubt another will follow. What say you?”

Lati’s brows furrowed in contemplation.

“I would not presume to command you, Master Arnol…” He caught the translator’s hesitation.

“Speak plainly,” Arnol replied. “If something threatens this endeavor, then I must know.” Lati released a breath.

“It was unwise to send the Lady Hyra back to Patwa Island so soon. Not without consulting with either Master Luvic or myself first. We cannot afford to lose so many men, even on Keranta’s errand.”

Then he did presume, Arnol thought. Such harshness from his translator, brought enslaved all the way from Lewangwati to Arcine and now back to the islands of his birth, was a strange and new thing to hear. His first thought was to bristle at it, to command him in return, but wisdom prevailed. Lati knew this place better than any other in the fleet, second only to Keranta himself. Even speaking outside his station, the translator’s words bore a weight greater even than Luvic’s. At least, they should.

“What would you have had me do instead? Sail the whole fleet back and lose days on our approach to the capital?” Arnol kept his tone even, if only to draw out more from Lati.

“Yes, Master Arnol. If Juyata has laid some sort of trap for our men, then at least we could meet it with force. A single carvel is not enough to repel them, even one as swift as the Lady Hyra.”

Arnol fell silent. Where he hoped to find words, he only felt a sinking in his gut. It was all so simple, he thought, all plainly before his eyes. Instead of taking precautions, he only trusted in a man he hardly knew except to be certain that his ambitions rivaled Arnol’s own.

But this was not for Lati’s ears. Lati, along with the other six hundred under Arnol’s command, had only to trust in him, to believe that they could look to him for strength. Even word of a mistake could not be permitted this far from home, not with so much hanging in the balance. He would have to be more careful.

“Keranta has done nothing untrustworthy thus far,” he replied. “And I trust you would have warned me before had he posed a threat to this voyage. Is he not who he claims to be?”

Arnol hoped that his own threat would put Lati back in his proper place, if not so much that the man would cease telling him what he needed to hear. It was a simple thing, really. Whether or not Keranta was the rightful king of these islands was immaterial: after Arnol’s men took the capital, no other claims to the throne would matter. He had seen with his own eyes as Nubi’s defenders melted away at the merest hint of cannonfire, and that was not even his full force. With warriors such as that, Arnol would not even need Juyata’s men to take Lewangwati. And if for any reason Keranta proved untrustworthy in the days to come, Arnol could always present the other king with a usurper’s head before taking the city regardless.

Lati was silent, pondering perhaps on the delicacy of his newfound freedom to speak his mind, so Arnol prodded him further.

“How would you know if Keranta is telling the truth?”

Lati shifted as he stood, looking only to the Jewaktanan noble at the forecastle. Arnol turned to face him as well.

“Plainly speaking, he is a nobleman in truth. You see the shape of his skull? How it comes to a point in the back? Only Jewaktanans of the highest lineages do that. Whether or not he is the rightful king… That is not a simple matter.”

Arnol turned to face the translator at that.

“How? Is he not a prince then?”

Lati shook his right hand in that way the islanders did to show uncertainty.

“It is not the same here as in your home. There, the firstborn son is heir to all his father has; anything he chooses to give to his second son and further is his own choice.”

Despite himself, Arnol felt warmth wash over his face. The quicker beating of his heart urged him to anger at Lati’s impudence to explain such a thing to him, but he restrained himself.

“This is true,” he replied instead. “What of it?”

“We have a joke in my place,” Lati said. “The people of Lewangwati call their island Nuritjuka: Land of Gold. In our tongue, we call it Nudlitiwa: Land of Princes. There are so many there that perhaps they could be great one day if only they were to fight us instead of only themselves. I have heard tales of this man Keranta, who must have been there in court that day.” Lati did not have to specify which day; this much they both knew. It was the day when Wilan’s good fortune had come to an end, so that Arnol’s own could come to be. “I can only presume this much, but I have also seen him fight. Seen him negotiate on Kalo Patwa as one who knew immense power and how to wield it. There was no amusement in it. Caution, perhaps, but no fear. He is a dangerous man.”

Now this was news to Arnol. This Keranta had likely been there, had seen Wilan and the others mutilated like hogs bound for market, and done… Surely, he had done more than nothing; instead, he only waited. Had he known perhaps that one day others would come from Arcine to seek righteous vengeance? Why else would the dead barbarian king Raput send back those survivors he did if not as a message in anticipation of a response?

And what a response it will be, Arnol thought. For Keranta and his little kingdom. Let him wait; let him plot all he wished about the fortunes that awaited him back in the City of Princes. But if he ever thought to endanger Arnol’s own designs, for vindication or for glory, then that city would have one fewer prince over which it must worry. On Wilan’s honor and his own, Arnol would swear that before God and angels themselves.

When he felt his grip on the ship’s railing finally loosen again, he released a deep breath.

“He will not trouble us for long,” he told Lati. “Should he survive far enough to win us the capital, he will serve us or die.”

The translator must have heard the edge in Arnol’s voice despite his efforts to conceal it; he retreated back to the quarterdeck with a bow and a word.

Still, the prince of Jewaktana—the enemy—kept his silent watch on the prow. Keranta could fret over this little island or another.

Soon enough, he would lose that as well.