by K Dowling
“It’s good to be armed in times like these.” She can feel the Hawk’s breath warm against her neck. He presses the dagger firmly into her hand and closes her fingers around the hilt. Her heart seizes up within her chest.
Releasing her hand, he moves away from her. She turns, wrenching her eyes from Harrane’s hanging carcass, but the Hawk is gone. The alleyway around her is empty. She is alone. She stares down at the dagger in her fist. She thinks again of the body in the square and her blood surges with the heat of rebellion.
She will wait for General Byron to go, and then she will have to act fast.
CHAPTER 9
Captain Alexander Mathew
So far, the island of Chancey has given Alexander anything but a warm welcome. He grimaces about him as he wanders through the bustling streets of the marketplace. He does not have to push and cajole his way through the crowd. In fact, the throng of Chancians that swarm about him, reeking of sweating powders and putrid perfumes, are more than content to offer him a wide berth as he passes. Their eyes remain glued to their carts. Their whispered mutterings are riddled with treachery.
Is it the hat that gives me away, he wants to ask, or the sword at my belt?
It is not as though he expects anything more. In fact, it seems as though the inhabitants of most of the islands that he and his crew have visited lately end up chasing them back onto their ships before the week is up. He can hardly blame them. The men of his crew are not the neatest of houseguests, or the most polite. And most of them are terrible at keeping their hands to themselves.
And yet he has specifically instructed his men to lay low during this visit to Chancey. They did not drop anchor to pick up supplies or to gamble away useless goods or to find easy women. This time, Alexander came ashore because he had an actual agenda, and one that he couldn’t afford to miss out on because another one of his men was caught in bed with a local lord’s daughter.
He had received word that Captain Jameson had holed himself up in a tavern on the island of Chancey about a month back. They had been stocking up on gunpowder at the eschewed port of Caros after a nasty shootout with the Westerly navy at sea. He had been in the middle of telling his woes to a particularly earnest young woman and her breasts when the Hawk had appeared with an old man that he introduced simply as Smith.
What’s Smith to me? he snapped, frustrated from his fruitless search for Jameson and beginning to feel a little bit inebriated.
Smith is Jameson to you, that’s who, the Hawk responded. He’s got word of him, anyhow.
Alexander has been tirelessly searching for the old mercenary for nearly a year. Before that, the mission had been his father’s fruitless, lifelong quest.
He thinks of Captain Samuel Mathew, and how his father and commander had passed his life’s mission to his son from his deathbed.
Find Jameson, Samuel had whispered, find the map wot he stole from me.
His father had been royalty in his own right—had been one of the seven appointed pirate lords of the Western seas. He had been sure in his dying moments that his command would be followed. Alexander was bound to his oath—both by blood and by loyalty to his captain. Alexander could not, for the life of him, fathom what could be so important about a map. And yet his father had taken his last breath before Alexander could dare to ask.
So there he was, left in the dark and sworn to solve a mystery for which he had not a single clue. Weeks passed. Then months. Finally, as the year drew to a close and he was no closer to finding Jameson than before, he was about ready to give up.
He was not so sure that would have been a terrible ending to the story. His men were sick of trekking aimlessly about the seas. And so, too, was he.
Smith and his information had either been a godsend or a curse.
Docked in the port of Chancey, ‘e did, Smith said, holding out one adamant palm for coins. Picked up a nasty bit of scurvy in the Agran Circle ov’r the wint’r seasons. Came ‘ere first but we en’t even got enough t’feed ourselves.
Alexander had not wanted to set sail for Chancey—had not wanted to risk tearing his ship to pieces in the wild spring storms that raged offshore the island—and yet he could hardly pass up the first glimmer of an opportunity he had received. The news Smith gave him was sound enough. More so, anyway, than any of the cryptic tips they had received in the past. As soon as he was sober he had gathered up his crew and lifted anchor.
He was determined to do his father proud—as though that would somehow make up for the time that was lost. Stolen from them, really. Captain Jameson had managed to successfully evade his father for years. For reasons unbeknownst to the captain and the crew of the Rebellion, the mercenary had been extraordinarily adept at knowing the exact whereabouts of the Rebellion’s location at any time.
But Alexander has finally done it—he, the green captain’s son that nobody believed in. He has done what even his father, the famed pirate lord, could not. He smiles to himself as he thinks of his luck upon arriving to the bar where Captain Jameson was said to have hunkered down. The mercenary had been asleep face down against the bar, his cheek resting in a puddle of his own drool. The item in question—a map—was peeking visibly out of the pocket of the man’s tattered coat.
It was too easy.
Alexander thinks of his mother, safe within her ward back in Senada, and wonders if she would be proud of him. He wonders, too, if she even thinks of him at all, now he is gone. She is consumed by the thought of his father, he is sure, just as she has always been.
Alexander frowns at the unwelcome thoughts of his mother. He pushes them away and glances upwards. The brick buildings that line the marketplace press inward over his head. Curling puffs of white are pushed by the wind across a mild blue sky. He fills his chest with air, nostrils flaring. He feels trapped between the silent red edifices. He is never comfortable when he cannot smell the sea.
The great bells of the cathedral are chiming the hour. The very foundations of the buildings around him seem to shake with each resounding clang of the imposing brass instruments that dwell in the towers overhead. He counts the hours silently. It is noon. When did it reach midday? The hours slipped by so quickly this morning. Slowly, the bells fall back into silence. The echoes ring in his ears.
Alexander is called back to the streets by the sharp braying of an animal and a loud, unfortunate yelp. Glancing around in surprise, he searches for the source of the clamor. Upon finding it, he nearly laughs aloud. An agitated looking donkey perches firmly upon the cobblestone, his long ears flattened against his scalp. His broad hoofed feet are splayed obstinately over a young, fair-haired woman that perches helplessly in a puddle of mud.
Alexander ambles over towards her, fighting hard to choke down the laughter that bubbles within him. The woman’s skin tone matches the cherry color of her full lips, the bottom one of which trembles slightly.
“Here.” He reaches his arms down and takes hold of her slender wrists. “Let me help you.” With a slight tug he is able to drag her back upright. Her soft carnation gown is covered in splashes of mud. She pulls her wrists from his grasp, crossing her arms protectively across her tightly laced corset. Her striking grey eyes are damp with tears.
“I’m Alexander,” he offers, choosing not to identify himself by his rank among his crew, but instead by the name his mother gave him. It is safer that way, he thinks. He keeps a friendly smile etched across his sun-kissed face. “You look like you could use some help with your animal, here.”
The young woman sniffs, shuffling one bare foot against the ground. With an idle hand she flips her white-blonde hair over her shoulder. He notices how waiflike her figure appears, quickly realizing that she is far too slender and too fair to be dragging a donkey through the streets. He wonders, now, if the animal even belongs to her at all.
“I don’t need your help,” she snaps, her lip still trembling. “You’ve gone and done enough damage already, thank you.”
Alexander hesitates, thrown off-guard by
her response. The young woman is staring pointedly over his shoulder. Her brow is creased in frustration as she scans the crowd at his back.
Odd.
“You have a nice day, miss.” He smiles, touching his finger to his hat as he turns to leave, suddenly wishing to be as far away from the strange woman as possible. Those grey eyes snap back towards him as he speaks.
“Actually,” she croons, her demeanor changing drastically. “Now that you’ve mentioned it, I suppose I could use some help getting this animal to the square.”
Alexander chews his lip, feeling thoroughly vexed by the young woman’s abnormal behavior. The square is in the opposite direction from where she had been previously heading. He thinks of the stories Evander the Hawk told him about the Cairan women of Chancey.
Mysteries, all of them. It’s why I never bothered. Saints, it’s why I left.
He shrugs. “Sure.” He supposes he has nothing but time now that he’s secured the map from Jameson. He thinks of it sitting in his pocket and smiles. Taking hold of the donkey’s fraying lead rope, he pats the tormented animal reassuringly upon the head before leading it down the street. He is certain that the Golden Guard will have cleared Captain Jameson out of the square by now. It should be safe enough to return.
The grey-eyed woman falls into step at his side as they walk. He can feel her eyes upon him as they make their way through the crowd. Her white-blonde hair sways against her exposed shoulder blades. As the stinging red seeps out of her cheeks, her pallid skin begins to appear translucent beneath the warm rays of sunlight.
It is a short venture back to the square. The donkey walks easily enough when the woman is not tugging relentlessly at his face. Its hooves clatter against the uneven stones of the street. It expels air outward through its wide nostrils. The skin flaps noisily against the force of its breath.
“I didn’t manage to catch your name,” Alexander says after the silence between them becomes uncomfortable.
“I didn’t offer it.”
“Oh.”
The woman sighs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “They call me the Fair.” Glancing up at him suspiciously she says, “I don’t speak with pirates, as a rule. I only needed help getting this ridiculous animal to move.”
“I see,” Alexander says, finding himself beginning to regret ever helping the ungrateful young woman out of the mud at all. Finally, after what seems like far too long, they round the corner and enter the square.
“Halt,” bellows a voice. Both Alexander and the young woman freeze. The donkey harrumphs in agitation as he is pulled to a sudden stop. Alexander wonders for a panicked moment if perhaps the Golden Guard has not quite gotten around to arresting Captain Jameson, and if the drunken mercenary has managed to identify him as the man that stole his precious map. He glances around the square. Not a single person is looking in his direction.
“Cease and desist, in the name of His Majesty!”
Alexander’s gaze settles upon a young guardian. The soldier’s face is white; his dark eyes are wide with apprehension. In his nervousness, he has drawn his ceremonial sword rather than his pistol. Curious, Alexander leads the donkey further into the square. He keeps to the shadows that linger at the edge of the open expanse, eager to remain invisible. His eyes scan the scene before him.
There, on a post that Alexander is quite sure was bare when he was here not long before, someone has strung a bloodied corpse. It is not the sight of the corpse that captures his attention, however, but what lies just beneath. Positioned under the body, her hands waving madly at the shrieking crows that swarm about her head, is a woman with wild black hair. She has shimmied up the length of the wooden post, her legs wrapped tightly about the wood for support. Her gown drapes down beneath her in waves of heavy olive fabric. Between her clenched teeth sits a gleaming dagger. She is making a terrific show of being deaf to the guardian’s commands.
“Come down or I’ll shoot,” he bellows.
Alexander wonders if he’s given any thought to how he plans to shoot her with his sword.
“What is going on here?” A second guardian has entered the square. Alexander recognizes him immediately as the lead officer from his squabble with Jameson. His golden cloak ripples in the wind as he surges into the opening. At Alexander’s side, the flaxen woman shrinks back behind the donkey. Her eyes are wild with fear. The guardian takes no notice of her. Instead, his dark brown eyes are glued to the woman on the post. She has removed the dagger from her mouth and has set to sawing through the rope that binds the corpse.
“Rogue,” barks the guardian. She pauses long enough to glance down over her shoulder before continuing.
“I’m cutting him down, General.”
“I can see that,” he replies calmly. “You’re committing treason.”
The woman called the Rogue continues to saw away at the rope. Her brow is furrowed. She pants from the exertion of holding herself steady upon the post. Alexander wonders how she plans to get the body down after she has untied him. Certainly, the cadaver is too heavy for a girl of her stature. Furthermore, once she is down, he wonders where she plans to run.
The general seems to have come to the same conclusion. Clasping his hands behind his back, he remains a safe distance out of reach of falling corpses.
“Rogue, if you continue to disobey orders, you will be placed under arrest.”
“Whatever he did, he deserves a proper burial,” the Rogue shouts down to the general. “And I’m sure he did nothing at all,” Alexander hears her snap to herself.
The rope is almost cut all the way through. The body has begun to pull away from the post. Alexander watches the general for a response. The guardian stands as though frozen to the street. He swallows hard, his brows pulling together above his dark gaze. He says nothing else, but waits. What else is there to be said? The Rogue is brimming with determination. She cannot be physically apprehended until she reaches the ground.
She has managed to cut the entirety of the rope away. It falls to the ground, coiling upon the stones like a snake. Alexander watches her struggle with the leaning weight of the corpse. She grunts, sliding a few inches down the pole before completely losing her grip. With a gasp and a thud she hits the ground hard. The corpse lands besides her; silent.
Alexander is surprised at the ease with which she jumps to her feet. Surely, she is hurting after taking such a spill. If she is, she shows no sign of pain. As she rights herself, she whips around to face the waiting pair of guardians. Alexander is caught off-guard by the steely challenge etched across her sharp, olive features—captivated by the way the sunlight catches in her striking green eyes. It is as though she is filled to the brim with the wild sea.
She glances around the square. Her eyes alight briefly upon Alexander and the flaxen haired woman.
“A little help?” She pants lightly, flashing them a smile. Her black curls are suctioned to her glistening cheeks.
The general turns to see whom it is she has addressed. Next to Alexander, the young woman’s plump, heart shaped lips have fallen open into a small, distressed “o”. The general’s eyes widen momentarily in what Alexander is sure is a flicker of recognition. The look is gone in an instant, however, overtaken by such severe composure that he immediately doubts what he has seen.
“Are you involved in this?” The general sounds annoyed. Alexander is not sure whom he is asking—him or the young woman at his side.
It is the woman who responds. “No,” she squeaks. Her wide, grey eyes are unblinking. Her next words are a barely subdued plea. “I don’t even know her.”
“Clear out of here,” the general barks.
She runs.
You forgot your donkey, Alexander thinks. The lead rope is still planted within his fists. The animal gives an indifferent snort and continues chewing at a bit of hay.
The general does not wait to see if Alexander leaves as well. He turns his attention back towards the Rogue. She is attempting to move the corpse from where it has cru
mpled at her feet.
“This didn’t have to end this way, Rogue,” the general says.
“Yes, it did,” strains the Rogue.
“You could have walked away.”
She is silent. She tugs uselessly at the arm of the cadaver. Her left hand wields her dagger as though it is a sword.
“Arrest her,” the general barks at the young guardian. Alexander watches as the two guardians slowly corner the girl. She glares back at them. He can see the wheels in her head turning; does she abandon the body and run or continue trying to move it?
Run, you fool, he thinks. He’s already dead.
She stays where she is, defiance written across her taut cheekbones. Alexander groans inwardly, knowing already the dangers in doing what it is he is about to do. He glances down at the donkey, giving the animal a wry smile.
“And here I told my crew how important it is to lay low while in Chancey,” he mutters. The donkey studies him with disinterest, its teeth clicking together in a chewing motion.
“Sorry about this.”
Alexander draws his cutlass from its scabbard and whacks the donkey hard on the backside with the flat edge of the blade. The animal shrieks, rearing up in agitation. It kicks its back legs out once, bolting forward at full speed. Hot, angry air comes snorting from its nostrils as it charges straight at the two guardians. Sheathing his sword, Alexander races along directly behind the animal. The golden soldiers dive out of the way. He grabs the Rogue around the waist and pulls her away from the corpse.
“Let go!” she shrieks. Her legs kick wildly. He groans as her knee comes into contact with his ribs. Drawing his pistol, he ducks his head as the blade of her dagger sweeps right by his ear. As he does so, he catches a glimpse of the low overhang above the door of one of the shops. A large roost of crows has settled to ogle the corpse through hungry, black eyes. They ruffle their feathers, chattering impatiently. A few of them land upon the ground near the body as he drags the woman away.
Nearby, the general has gathered himself. He, too, has drawn his pistol. Alexander can see him leveling the weapon, aiming it at his head. He aims his gun at the door to the shop, shooting in the direction of the birds. They take off in a flurry of screams and feathers, obscuring the general from his view.
