The Fanged Crown: The Wilds by Jenna Helland Page A

they were eighteen, and many were weak and ill from untreated maladies.
    Harp was expected to organize the boys into work crews, but he wasn’t their keeper. Predeau’s henchmen monitored them constantly and locked them in their quarters whenever the ship made port. The boys slept in a dark, squalid room in the depths of the ship and ate the scraps left from the older sailors.
    They’d been on the water for a few days when Harp awoke to the sounds of scuffling above his head. He rolled out of his hammock and climbed the ladder. The sun hadn’t fully risen, but a handful of the boys were on deck, their hair and clothes damp from the spray of the rough waves. They were grouped around a small black-haired boy who was on his hands and knees scrubbing the boards. When the black-haired boy paused in his work, a lanky boy named Merik would kick at him or call him a name.
    “What’s going on?” Harp asked Merik. Even though he’d been onboard for less than a tenday, Harp had figured out that Merik was Predeau’s pet. A few of the boys were handpicked as henchmen-in-training, with Predeau taking much pleasure in goading his favorites until they abused the younger and weaker ones of their own accord.
    “Predeau said Kitto wasn’t working hard enough,” Merik explained. “He gave us all more shift time.”
    Harp looked down at Kitto, who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. The kid’s arms were shaking with fatigue.
    “How long have you been out here?”
    Merik shrugged. “Not long enough.”
    “He’s supposed to finish the deck?” Harp asked, looking down the length of the ship. Usually it took a crew of five several hours to finish the task.
    “Yeah, then we get out of our extra time,” Merik said, kicking at Kitto again. “Work faster, rat-face.”
    Harp looked down at Kitto, whose gaze never wavered from the brush in his hands. He scrubbed the deck rhythmically, as if he were some kind of machine. His blank features had no more expression than a mask.
    “All right, get back to your jobs,” Harp said firmly. “I’ll take care of it.”
    Most of the boys looked relieved, but Merik looked suspicious. “Are ya going to make him finish so we can get out of our time?”
    “I’ll tell the captain you did your jobs.”
    As the days passed, Harp saw it happen again and again. Merik led the charge against Kitto, who never complained or cried. And hardly spoke, Harp noticed. Merik took his cue from Predeau, who seemed to have a particular dislike of slender, quick-footed Kitto, even though the boy had a reputation for being the best picklock and pickpocket on the crew. Predeau’s men took Kitto with them whenever there was a tricky lock or the need for quick hands in a crowded bazaar. Despite these successful ventures, Predeau hounded Kitto more than anyone else on the ship.
    Harp never heard Kitto say a word. After his day’s work ended, the boy would find a quiet corner and hack away at a hunk of wood with a little blade that was barely sharp enough to cut butter. On the few occasions Harp tried to talk to him, Kitto scurried silently away, although Harp
    once found a crude whistle stuck in the laces of his boots. It played a surprisingly sweet tune.
    On the night before Merik’s eighteenth birthday, Harp found him sitting behind a row of barrels, smoking a pipe, and rolling a bone-carved die over and over on the boards beside him. The die landed on the jack-side every single time.
    “Have you ever heard Kitto talk?” Harp asked, sitting down beside Merik and pulling out his tobacco pouch.
    “Nah, he’s a mute,” Merik said, looking pleased that Harp had joined him. He sat up straighter and tucked the die into his pocket.
    “Why does Predeau hate him?”
    Merik shrugged. “Cause Kitto’s too stupid to live, you know? All he’s got to do is simple. But he always has to make things hard on himself.”
    “How?”
    “You know those ‘tails Predeau’s got to use on the