The Pirate's Lady

by Julia Knight

  The time getting here had been torture—a thumbscrew of boredom, a hot brand of grayness, of sameness. He wanted color and noise and excitement. He wanted to get these gray Remorian clothes off and find a really bright shirt, some garish breeches that fitted snugly and a pair of boots he could hide his knives in. He wanted to run from guards with a fizz of fear and joy in his blood, to con and steal and twist till his pockets ran with money, and then spend it all on booze and gambling. He wanted things as they had been before, to take the stupid-but-exciting over the sensible-but-dull, always.

  He wanted all those things, and Estovan—vast, sprawling down-and-dirty Estovan—was the place for it, for everything and anything. He strode along the jetty toward Mucking Lane, a racketeer haven full of the soft chiming of Forn’s bells, a riot of drunken racks, brothels, gambling houses and fences who’d buy and sell almost anything and ask no questions more distressing than “How much?”

  First things first. Clothes. He couldn’t be a rack, couldn’t be himself in these shapeless gray Remorian clothes. Especially if he wanted to make a good impression on Josie. He took a deep breath of free air and regretted it when he got a lungful of the solid smell of brackish water, rotting seaweed and too many people to count all jammed up close.

  He needed to be quick, to find a shop before they closed in the heat of the day. In Estovan, where the midday sun was a nail to pin you to the ground, business mostly took place at night, or in the cool of dawn and sunset. Daytime was for sleeping. The night was for trading, or twisting. He left Mucking Lane with all its many delights behind him and headed for Stitch Street before the sun grew too strong. The brothels and gambling houses gave way to traders, tanners, sail-makers, scry-merchants, gunsmiths and armorers. The streets were full of a press of people that delighted him, made him feel alive again, him again so that he almost laughed aloud with it.

  He risked a sneaky dip here and there, just to test that he’d not lost his touch, and came up with two silver seals and a nub of carved ivory, a devotional to the goddess Kyr, a request for mercy. He slipped that back. Kyr had been merciful to him of late, and he needed her to carry on being merciful.

  As he got closer to the city walls, he curbed his hand because he wanted to keep it. The trade council that ran Estovan, the Yelen, were vociferous in keeping it crime-free to attract more trade. Their guards were sharp-eyed, well-armed and completely unbribable. Shame really.

  When he got to the entrance of Stitch Street, where the crowds massed ever tighter, his euphoria at being back wore off. Enough that he began to notice an odd undercurrent, a strange taste to the atmosphere. Not enough to make his little-magics itch, but enough to make his steps wary, to have him look around and really notice.

  There was something odd about the flow of people, about the people themselves. One or two Estovanians made sure they avoided his path. Not so unusual, given his wandering hand and the reputation of racks everywhere. What was unusual was that it wasn’t a “look out here comes a rack” kind of scramble for their purse to make sure it was still there. More a “don’t look at him, pretend he isn’t there, I don’t want trouble” kind of look. Odd.

  He picked a likely looking shop jammed hard up against the outside of the city walls, all hung about with bright silk shirts in every color imaginable. The chime of his bells warned the shopkeep as he entered, and the man looked up, his face sliding into a trading mask, a smooth patina to run off his spiel. The mask slid back off when he saw Van Gast, and he reached under the counter for a pistol.

  He pointed it at Van Gast, but his hand was unsteady, much like his voice. “I don’t serve your sort here. I don’t want any trouble. There’s a man down the end of the road, he’ll do for you.”

  Van Gast tried a reassuring grin. “I only want to buy—”

  “I don’t sell to Remorians, are you deaf?”

  So that was it, the looks he’d been getting. “I’m not Remorian. I need something bright to wear before I die of grayness. Come on, what do you say?”

  The pistol wavered and then jabbed toward his left wrist. “Maybe you weren’t born one, I can tell the difference, but you got a bond scar there. Take me for a fool? Your lot have been rampaging all over the place, causing nothing but blood and trouble. The Yelen put an edict out. You’ll be in their dungeons quick smart, or worse.”

  Van Gast tugged his sleeve down over the fading bond scar on his wrist and used the distraction to slide his pistol out. He knocked the quivering shopkeep’s weapon from his hand and cocked the gun, though he didn’t point it. He just held it, loose and ready like his grin, and tried to keep hold of his temper.

  “I’m not a Remorian, but if you don’t sell me some fucking clothes, I’ll steal them instead. Maybe everything else too. Or you could sell me what I want. I need to get some damn color on, now. I think the blue, don’t you?”

  The shopkeep didn’t move for long heartbeats. Van Gast was just about to grab a shirt anyway when he piped up.

  “You don’t act like one of them. They’re all raving, either murdering people in their beds or drooling in a corner.”

  “That’s because I’m not one. The shirt? If you’re quick I might even pay for it.”

  The shopkeep hesitated, considering, but the deliberate jingling of Van’s purse soon had him bustling about, relief making him gabble. “The blue, yes, how about this one?” He eyed Van Gast critically. “No, you need it wider at the shoulders. This one, it’s got several hidden pockets inside. Real Istarian silk, too, none of that fake crap they sell for coppers in the plaza.”

  Van Gast slid off the Remorian tunic with a sigh of relief and reached for the soft silk. The brightest blue in the shop, and real silk as the man said. Perfect. The shopkeep had shut up and was staring at his side. Van Gast turned to hide the scar there, the bullet wound still a violent, puckered red, and shrugged the shirt on.

  “Remorians have always been raving,” he said, more for something to say to get the shopkeep to stop staring than anything else. The scar was a reminder that he wasn’t invulnerable, and maybe that was why he hated it. It was also proof of what he was willing to do, the lengths he would go to, to get what he wanted, and that was why he was proud of it. As long as no one saw it. Besides, the scar clashed with the shirt. “At least this time, there’s a chance they’ll recover.”

  The shopkeep brought out a spotted mirror and Van Gast preened in it before he transferred a few things from the gray tunic to the new shirt’s pockets. A scrap of cloth, a knife or two of course, and the glass dagger that sat smooth and cool against his skin through the thin silk.

  “They say,” the shopkeep whispered, “they say there’s some of the mages left, in the palace with the Yelen. They say they’ve been re-bonding people.”

  Kyr’s mercy, would it never end? “Then it’s a good job I’m not staying long. The green breeches, I think. And a good pair of boots with space for my knives, and a few spares. A sober shirt and breeches.” For those times when it didn’t pay to stand out so much.

  Van Gast hoped Josie’s twist didn’t mean getting mixed up with Remorian mages again, or mage-bonds or slaves or anything to do with them. If they were re-bonding people, then sadly Estovan would no longer be on his list of favorite places to steal things from. Well, maybe a quick bit of theft, if something came available. Best to find out what he could though—he wasn’t leaving before he found out what Josie was planning. “What else do they say?”

  The shopkeep seemed to have got over his nerves now it was clear Van Gast wasn’t a raving madman, or at least not right now he wasn’t. “It’s been terrible. Riots in the Godsquare, the Remorians stirring up a storm. The ones who are still here, in their minds that is. Couple of big merchants—members of the Yelen, it’s rumored, you know how secretive that lot are—got murdered last week. Sliced their throats open in their beds. The guards can’t control them, not at all, that’s why they’ve started locking them up, or worse. Re-bonding some of them, the ones who aren’t too far gone, t
hat’s the rumor, and I don’t know what’s worse, that or what they’re doing to the ones they think are not worth saving. As long as they don’t start bonding us too.”

  Van Gast looked in the mirror at the bright clothes, the grin, and the attitude that marked a rack as surely as anything else. He was back, himself again. He winked at his reflection. Ready for anything. “Well, that’s something to watch for. Those mages are fuckers for that.”

  “Yes, well, they might start on convicts, the Yelen said. To control them. Got one in particular in mind to catch. Been plastered all over the Godsquare, reward of ten thousand gold sharks.”

  Ten thousand? Kyr’s mercy, you could buy a respectable-sized town and everything in it, everyone in it, for that much. Van Gast must have looked skeptical, because the shopkeep rattled on.

  “Some rack captain, stole something of the Yelen’s and shot a son of the council. Going to bond him and then put his head on a spike, they reckon. Once they’ve finished in the dungeons, and that might take a while. Van Gast—you must have heard of him? If you see him, tell him not to come within ten leagues of Estovan, if he values his life.”

  Van Gast had known there would be a price on his head, that the Yelen would eventually discover it was him who’d stolen that sodding diamond. Plus he’d inadvertently whacked a few of their guards in Bilsen and interrupted some sort of deal with mages, then stolen all the money they’d brought with them for the trade.

  Still, ten thousand. He’d almost turn himself in for that much. If it was just the Yelen dungeons, he might have done. He’d got out of worse places. But a bond too—he shuddered. He was never risking that again, losing control of his mind to do another’s will, to forget who and what he was. Fuck that for a game of sailors.

  He’d best be careful of Holden’s crew too—well, his crew now. He didn’t know them, not enough to trust them. Not even Holden. Freedom was too new, the possibility of choices too fresh and exciting. Holden just might choose to live without Van Gast. Anyone and everyone who knew his face and name together was a threat with that much money on it.

  Van Gast pulled himself together and tweaked the shirt to his satisfaction. “Everyone’s heard of Van Gast. I’ll be sure to let him know, if I see him,” he managed weakly. His old boots were just about falling to pieces and the shopkeep held them at arm’s length as he dropped them into a bin. Van Gast pulled on the new boots—a pleasing blood red—stowed his knives, sword and pistol and slid the bells over his left ankle. He gave them an extra shake, an extra prayer, and was glad he’d put back the devotional to Kyr. He was going to need a serious amount of mercy, because he was about to head straight into Yelen territory.

  Stupid? Yes, but gods, exciting too. His fingertips tingled with it.

  It was better when he was back out on the street, which was quieter now as the sun made its presence felt. No one looked at him askance, though they looked to their purses, but he wasn’t about cutting purses, not today, not now. He headed to the delta, toward racks and booze and a place where he might find who he was after.

  * * *

  Rillen closed his eyes to the squalor, his ears to the pleadings, the screams for mercy, for Kyr, for death to end everything. He didn’t smell the rancid sweat or the fear that permeated even the stones of the Yelen’s dungeons. Decades of inhabitants had left their mark, in blood and sweat and screams so that now the whole place was soaked in terror. But not for Rillen, a son of the council, unless all his plans went awry, in which case the dungeons would be a paradise before his father gave him his real punishment.

  He stopped in front of a cell that lay dark with dread, shivered with whimpers. A vague shape huddled in the far corner. Rillen had the guard open the cell and he picked his way carefully across the fetid straw, kicked at a bold rat and crouched in front of the shape.

  A month in the dungeons had changed Haban from a vast sleekness with ebon skin, bright eyes and a booming voice to this. A shrunken little man, his skin grayed, his eyes ghosts in his face, his voice a whisper. Yet still, still, he defied them. Still he wouldn’t say where the diamond had come from, though Rillen knew it was from Van Gast. Still he wouldn’t say where to find Van Gast, how to catch him, what he looked like. All that pain and fear and still no word had crossed his lips except protestations of innocence.

  He was starting to piss Rillen off.

  “Hello, Haban. Feeling well?”

  The shape stirred feebly on the straw, eyes bright and feverish.

  “I thought not. I have a little news for you, would you like to hear it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Someone is quite eager to have you returned. So eager, in fact, that they’ve agreed to help me catch Van Gast and not even take the reward, as long as I let you free instead. Isn’t that good news for you?”

  The shape on the floor let out a gusty sound, like a creaking gate in need of oil. It startled Rillen enough that he went for his pistol, and it was only as he cocked it that he realized Haban was laughing, a pained, stretched thing on a wavering voice.

  “You can’t catch him,” Haban wheezed finally. “That’s why all this has been useless. I don’t know where he is, or how to trap him, no matter how you ask or for how long. The gods themselves couldn’t catch Van Gast if he didn’t want to be caught. What chance do you have, compared to that?”

  Rillen stood and aimed the pistol, tempted, so very tempted to use it. But no, not now, not yet. He needed Haban as bait for the niece, to make her do as he wanted. Once he had Van Gast though, Haban would be the first person he shot. A little something to look forward to. “You should pray to those gods then, that I manage it. Because if I don’t, then I’ve got little use for you anymore, or the person who wants you free so badly.”

  Haban’s smile was a shadow of its former glory. “Then I am dead already, no?”

  Rillen stalked out of the cell and slammed the door shut behind him. The creaking laugh followed him all the way up the steps, rattling round his head. He reached the open air and took a deep breath, savoring the freedom of it, the scorch of the sudden sun, the waft of a sea breeze. If he failed, it would be him in that cell, his father taunting him.

  He would not fail.

  Haban had a point though. Rumor spoke of Van Gast’s little-magics, said to be a nose for trouble. He knew when it was, where it was. He could smell it coming and make sure he wasn’t there to meet it.

  What Rillen needed was a point of leverage, over and above Haban’s niece and whatever she could find. It was time to go and watch Van Gast’s ship, to find that leverage.

  Chapter Four

  Holden entered Mucking Lane with two of his crew at his back. The street was thick with people, with racks and drunks and whores. His stomach was wound up tight, like a spring. Before he’d always had the security of knowing he was a Remorian, that no one would cut his purse or try to rob him—or worse—for fear of the bond he’d lay on them in return. Now it was just him, and that churned his head, made him try to find the old comfort in patterns, in straight lines. No comfort there anymore, not now his head was free. All was whirling chaos.

  Find more crew, Van Gast had said. They were far too short-handed, what with the men killed or gibbering. Another half dozen had decided that racketeering wasn’t for them, and Van Gast had sent them on their way with a fat purse and a wish of luck.

  So, find an inn and some racks and get them aboard with the promise of money. Holden was used to the way people looked at him, the fear, the wrinkling of the nose at the smell of Remoria, the smell of the bond. Yet this time it was different. These looks were accompanied by surreptitious hands on swords, knives or guns. Wary, fearful, but not afraid to fight back. Not anymore.

  Finding a crew was more trouble than Holden had expected. They were refused entry in three inns, and at a fourth a wholesale riot had almost broken out at the sight of Remorians in the midst of a more usual brawl.

  Finally, at the fifth inn, they made it past the entrance without outright hostility. Holden pushed thro
ugh the door and was greeted by a shocked silence followed by muttering and dark looks. A couple of chairs scraped back, tankards were lowered and the barkeep reached under the counter. Holden made it to the bar without getting a stab in the back, which seemed encouraging.

  The barkeep nodded at him but kept his hand on whatever it was under the counter. A pistol probably, or a club. “We don’t want none of your lot in here, but I’m a reasonable man. You walk out now, we’ll let you.”

  Now the trouble would start. If he was Van Gast he would have said some glib lie perhaps, or grinned and flirted with the little barmaid and got her on his side. But Holden would never be a Van Gast. He could barely be a Holden.

  “I don’t want trouble either. I just need some crew.”

  The club came out from under the bar, and the barkeep slapped it into his hand menacingly. “I said out, before I call the guards.”

  Holden was aware of movement at his back—a surreptitious shuffling, a scrape of chairs, the thunk of tankards lowered to a table in unison. The swish of a blade released from its sheath, a pistol cocked stealthily. Indecision gripped him. To leave would show fear, an admission of failure that Van Gast would laugh at. To stay would probably mean dying. He wasn’t Van Gast. He didn’t choose the stupid over the sensible because it was fun. He raised his one hand in a hopefully reassuring gesture. “We’re going.”

  He backed away, his eyes on the patrons of the bar and the weapons they held at the ready. His two crewmen stayed close and they made it to the door with only barbed comments on cowardice and madness to wound them.

  Out in the street, the looks they got were no better. He couldn’t go back to the ship empty-handed. He had a purse full of gold sharks, enough to buy a dozen racks ten times over. Almost any rack would sell his soul for enough cash. There had to be somewhere he could find some—