Emilie & the Hollow World - By Martha Wells Page 0,3
water drain out of her clothes, so tackling the ladder wasn't as difficult as it would have been earlier. The motor boat was drawing closer somewhere out in the dark, and that spurred her on.
She dragged herself up onto the polished wooden planks of the deck, and staggered upright. She started toward the nearest hatch: a heavy door with a thick crystal porthole. It stood open a little, and she cautiously peeked inside. It led into a wide interior corridor running parallel to the deck, lined with fine dark wood, the floor covered with a thick patterned carpet. An electric ceramic sconce about midway down provided wan light, enough to show her the richness of the brass fixtures and fittings. This must be someone's private steam yacht, she thought, startled. Not a good place to be caught if she didn't want to be mistaken for a thief again.
Emilie heard the boat motor sputter and turned. The launch was entering the slip, the light on its bow giving her enough of a glimpse of the occupants to see that there were several figures in dark clothing aboard. This isn't the best place to hide but it's the only one I've got, Emilie thought. She wiggled through the doorway without moving the hatch and started down the corridor.
She was still dripping, but fortunately the dark pattern of the carpet didn't show it. Anxious and feeling exactly like the unwelcome, uninvited intruder she was, she took the first turn to a cross passage.
The lights were brighter here which made her feel horribly exposed. She hurried past cabin doors, but they were all closed, and she was afraid to walk in on someone sleeping, or worse, awake. She passed a narrow stairwell, hesitated, then decided to stay on this deck.
Then the passage opened out into a lounge. It had deep upholstered couches built back against the walls, glass-fronted bookcases, and a white porcelain heating stove. There was a partially open door at the back. She hurried over to peek inside, and saw it was a steward's cubby, with a gas ring, a tap, and storage cabinets. As a hiding place, it was a good possibility. Surely it was too late at night for someone to want to sit in the lounge and call for a steward.
Footsteps sounded from somewhere nearby, and Emilie whipped into the cubby and pushed the door nearly to, leaving a slim gap. She crouched down on the tile floor, wrapped her arms around her knees, and tried to make her breathing silent.
Two sets of footsteps drew near, and she heard a man's voice say, “Lord Engal, I wish you wouldn't do this.” It was a light voice, with a cultured city accent.
“You mean proceed with the expedition, or trust Kenar's word, Barshion?” another man, presumably Lord Engal, answered. His voice was deeper, with the same accent, and Emilie immediately pictured a much larger man. He sounded amused and dismissive. Emilie thought of Uncle Yeric, not in a complimentary way.
“Perhaps both.” Barshion's tone was serious. “You know what I think of Kenar. We can't be certain what his motives are. There's too much at stake-”
“Dr. Marlende's life is at stake, and the lives of his crew! This expedition must leave as scheduled. We've already delayed too long.” The amusement had gone from Engal's voice, making him sound far more commanding.
Expedition? Emilie wondered. Lives at stake? Fascinated, she edged forward and angled her head to see out the gap.
A man paced into view, slender, with sleek blond hair and the pale skin of Northern Menaen ancestry. He was dressed in a very correct tweed walking suit with a carefully starched neckcloth. He said, “Marlende was...is, my friend as well.” From his voice this was the one called Barshion. “I want to go to his assistance as badly as you do, but if we have the wrong information, we're risking Marlende's life and the lives of his surviving crew as well as our own.”
“I understand your concerns, but we can't wait any longer. Even if Kenar is overstating the urgency, the entire party must be in real danger.” Emilie heard a rustle, the click of what might be a pocket watch, then Engal stepped into view. He was big, burly enough to work on the docks, gray-haired, gray-bearded. Like Emilie, and most of the people she had seen in Meneport, his looks were more Southern Menaen, with warm brown skin and dark eyes. “Hickran should be back soon. What's keeping the man?”