Belladonna

hailed him.
    "Captain Kenneday," Michael said. He glanced up at the barkeep — a new man who hadn't been working at the Port of Call the last time he'd visited Kendall — and began digging in his pockets for the coins needed to pay for his drink.
    Kenneday waved a hand. "On me." Then he raised his glass of ale. "To your good health, Michael."
    "And yours," Michael replied, raising his own glass to return the salute. He looked around the room. "Doesn't seem to be a night to drink for the fun of it and get pissed enough to tell a bald-faced lie to your mates and believe it's the truth."
    "No, no one is drinking for the fun of it." Kenneday drained half his glass, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Did you hear about the murders?"
    Michael's hand stuttered, almost spilling the ale. "Murders?"
    "Four streetwalkers and a young gentleman who had picked the wrong night to go slumming around the docks."
    "Someone killed four women?" The young gentleman wasn't that surprising. Anyone who came around the docks at night dressed like he had money was a man begging to be robbed at the very least.
    "Three women." Kenneday shrugged to indicate he didn't pass judgment on who was earning a living in the alleyways. "All viciously killed. Caused quite a stir."
    "They didn't find the man who did it?"
    "The constables didn't find anything. It's like whatever killed those people just melted away."
    "Which is impossible."
    "Is it?" Kenneday whispered. "Is it really, Michael?" He scrubbed his salt-and-pepper hair with the fingers of one hand, then smiled, clearly trying to change the mood. "So where are you off to now? Heading for your southern ports of call?"
    How many other people realized his wandering wasn't as aimless as it seemed? It had started that way, but by the end of his second year he found himself making a circuit, returning to the same villages several times a year.
    Just like his father had done. Odd that it had never occurred to him before, but the last year the family had traveled together, he'd been old enough to anticipate revisiting places but too young to appreciate what the pattern of traveling meant.
    "Actually, I'm heading north," Michael replied, suddenly feeling cautious. Kenneday was ten years his senior and an open-minded man who usually wasn't inquisitive about another man's personal life, except for a bit of bawdy teasing. The question sounded friendly, but he couldn't shake the notion there was something behind it. "Going up to Raven's Hill to spend some time with my aunt and sister."
    "I'm heading that way myself. Got cargo to take up to the White Isle, so we'll be sailing past Raven's Hill. I can drop anchor there long enough to see you ashore."
    "That's kind of you to offer," Michael said, feeling more wary by the moment.
    Kenneday shrugged to indicate it wasn't worth mentioning. But he kept his eyes fixed on the table as he moved his glass in slow circles. "We'll be sailing with the morning tide, so I can settle you into a bunk for the night. Have you had dinner yet?"
    "No." Michael glanced around the room, then leaned across the table. "I'm not saying you're not a generous man, Captain Kenneday, or that you haven't offered me passage at other times to make the traveling easier, but before I agree to anything this time, I'd like to know what's behind the offer."
    For a moment, Kenneday looked up, and Michael caught a glimpse of a haunted soul. Then the other man fixed his attention back on the glass and the circles he was making on the table.
    "Safety," Kenneday finally said. "Safety for my ship and my crew. That's what's behind the offer." He hesitated, then leaned forward so his forehead was almost touching Michael's. "I've been a sailor most of my life. Took to the sea as a boy, as soon as I was old enough to be hired on. So I've seen my share of the world, and I can tell you there's something strange about Ephemera and the way it responds to some people."
    Magician. That was the word that now hung between them. First Shaney, now Kenneday. Maybe he'd never been as unremarked as he'd believed.
    "There's stories coming down from the north," Kenneday said, "and the captains who sailed past the spot are swearing they'll sink their own ships before they sail that stretch of water again."
    A twitch in the belly, a tightening in his shoulders. "What kind of stories?"
    "Something evil has risen from the depths of the sea. A great, tentacled monster. It destroyed five fishing boats, killed