The Pirate's Lady

by Julia Knight

  A hesitant hand on his arm made him turn. “Are you really a Remorian?”

  The little barmaid from the inn, looking pert and interested. Not disgusted or afraid.

  “Yes, I am. But we’re free men now. Nothing to fear from us.”

  “You’re looking for crew?”

  Holden hesitated but any help was welcome, here where the world was strange and he was stranger. A decision, something he was still getting used to. “Yes, a half dozen at least. I can pay good money.”

  She looked up at him with wide dark eyes like a midnight tide. “I can fight, and I know one end of a yardarm from the other. I’ll sign up.”

  “You will?” Holden frowned to himself. Remorians didn’t take women on ship as crew, but racks did. Fully a third of Van Gast’s old crew had been women, and of course Josie was a rack, one of the most renowned. Everyone else looked at Holden and his crew with such distaste and fear. He was out of choices.

  The girl’s head bobbed up and down and made the rest of her jiggle. A well-set-up little thing she was, looking fine in a linen shirt that showed off her curves and a skirt that hid them. There was something about her, some air of eager helpfulness that made him throw all his caution to the four winds and say, “All right. Can you help us find more crew?” Stupid thing to do, probably, but her smile was worth it. He felt drunk with idiocy.

  The smile was a tentative thing at first before a burst of enthusiasm made it take over her face. “Of course. I know everyone round here. Important asset in a bar. First, you need to look less like a Remorian. Come on, you can spend some of that money, and then you’ll get a crew in no time. I’m Tallia by the way.”

  Holden and his crewmen followed her, wary at first, expecting a trap, to be rolled for their money in some dark alley. But Tallia led them through a maze of streets that were quieter now the sun had reached its midpoint, past beggars who fell back out of their way in fear, men who shielded their wives as though a horror walked among them, into a little square shaded from the blast of the sun by tattered silk awnings. A sleeping dog woke, looked up at them with one bleary eye, seemed to decide they weren’t any danger and went back to sleep. Tallia led them into a building in the far corner, a run-down little mud-brick hovel seemingly held up by its neighbors.

  Holden had to duck to enter into a dark, cool room full of bales of silk and cotton and linen. Shirts hung all over the walls in every color Holden could imagine, so bright he had to shut his eyes for a heartbeat.

  When he opened them again, Tallia had half a dozen shirts down from the wall. She measured one against him, a violent red cotton affair that would match Holden’s burning cheeks if he wore it.

  “Tallia, we’re after crew, not clothes.”

  Her eyebrows pinched together as though she was confused, and then her face cleared and she laughed. It was such a free sound, one he’d not heard in long weeks aboard, that he had to smile in return.

  “There, that’s better,” she said. “You look much more handsome when you smile. Maybe the red is too much, but dressed in those drab grays—you’ll find only more Remorians, and few enough of them. If you don’t get picked up yourselves. You want rack, you have to look rack.”

  “Remorian crew would be fine,” he said, his voice stiff at the implication. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  Tallia plucked out a loose linen shirt that looked like it might fit him, a dark blood red that was relatively sober, but only compared to the rest. “Because of the Yelen? There, that’s better. Whose ship are we sailing on? Yours?”

  She watched him as he took off the gray tunic that had been his uniform for too long and slid on the shirt. Even the sober red seemed too bright, especially under her gaze. He hurried to button it up, fumbling with only one hand because buttons were still hard, worried that he was blushing the same color as the shirt.

  “Yes, in a way it’s my ship.” The Glass Dagger was Van Gast’s really, but they’d known he’d be looked for here. Van had promised to keep a low profile, but Holden wasn’t sure anything he did could be anything less than flamboyant. So all the new crew would be kept aboard till they sailed, so as not to be tempted to turn Van in. The Yelen might not know what Van Gast looked like, but most racks would have a passing knowledge of the most famous rack along the western coast. “Can we see about that crew now?”

  The other men swapped their tunics for bright shirts and they all found breeches that fit snugly—too snugly for Holden’s comfort. Tallia got them to ruffle their hair as much as they could, less stiff, more like a rack. Holden’s hair, which had been all but shorn in the Remorian style a few weeks ago, was now only just long enough to tousle. She stood on tiptoe, a hand on his arm to steady herself as she disheveled him. Her fingers were very warm through the linen, but not as warm as his cheeks when she smiled her enthusiastic smile straight at him. Had Ilsa ever smiled at him like that? He didn’t think so.

  “Well then, Commander Holden, let’s find you your crew.”

  It was only later, when they’d found five more crew as easy as spitting, thanks to Tallia, that he realized he’d not told her his name.

  * * *

  Rillen shifted in the doorway and frowned at the ship he was watching. Van Gast’s ship, or so his father and the mages said. The Lone Queen. Odd sort of name for a man like Van Gast to give his ship.

  A dozen of Rillen’s men were dotted round the jetty and along the wharf, watching who came off or went on, hoping to see Van Gast. It was a fool’s hope. Van Gast was smart, fast, good at changing his appearance, and legendary in getting away from whoever wanted to catch him, usually at the last possible moment. Rillen despaired of finding him in these crowds, despite the sketchy picture he’d been given.

  At least four of the crew—damn, half a hundred racks in the city he’d seen—could have been Van Gast, except…except Rillen had heard many rumors about Van Gast. Among the favorites was the man’s panache, a way of walking, of holding himself that made him stand out when he wanted to, when he wasn’t trying to be someone else. None of these men had that. Maybe Van Gast was hiding it, or maybe he just wasn’t here. No sign of Haban’s niece yet either, the little witch.

  Rillen shifted again as a breeze came his way, moved so it would cool his face and neck. He shouldn’t be doing this—he was a captain in the palace guard, a son of the council, and this was a job for his men, not him. Or would be if the mages hadn’t insisted. He’d thought about disobeying, of sending his men and waiting at the palace, but only briefly. There was something about the mages, their eyes shadowed by crystals, their clammy skin where much of their magic had broken away in the Freeing. Their willing puppet slaves, all dead-eyed and blank. It was enough to give any free man the creeps, and incidentally enough to make sure Rillen did as they told him, for now at least.

  He had plans though, oh yes, plans always turning about in his head, waiting for their time.

  Two more racks came down the Queen’s gangplank. Not Van Gast, Rillen was fairly sure. One was too old—Van Gast was about Rillen’s own age of twenty five, though no one knew for sure, probably not even Van Gast. Racketeers didn’t go in for record-keeping as a rule. The other was too slender, too hunched and timid looking, unless Van Gast’s way with disguises was holding up well.

  A boy came onto the wharf, trying to be surreptitious but far too obvious for Rillen’s liking. A message, no doubt. He wondered what barbed words of faint praise his father had sent and, tried to make his way unobtrusively to the boy. He wasn’t sure he managed it—despite the heat that kept many of the shops shut till dusk, the jetty was full of racks, and though he and his men had tried to dress the part, he was fairly sure they just looked like all the wished-they-weres, those who tried to join their ranks and failed. There were plenty of those about—merchants’ sons rebelling against a life of order or maybe just trying to talk women into bed, women who failed to see the attraction of marriage or seamstressing or whoring and wanted a more exhilarating challenge. They were all too obvious
, even to Rillen. The racks ignored them to their faces and laughed behind their backs. You didn’t become a rack by wishing it or dressing in all the bright colors you could find and hoping. You just were, or not.

  The boy spotted Rillen and wove through the crowd. A slip of paper made its way into Rillen’s hand and the boy disappeared. Rillen found a quiet corner and opened the message. From Haban’s niece. Good girl. The message was short and to the point—Lone Queen no longer Van Gast’s ship. Have made Van Gast’s crew. More to follow.

  I’ve stood on this roasting jetty all morning, and now you tell me it’s the wrong sodding ship?

  Yet the annoyance was short-lived, followed by a tight smile. The girl had made Van Gast’s crew, so the right ship would be forthcoming. He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, gathered his men and they made their grumbling way back to the palace.

  Rillen went to his chamber, watched the ships as they sailed into harbor for the reception, all the greediest, richest traders wanting to jostle for position with his father and his new mages. Those traders now preening along the avenue in their best, their wives dripping with jewels, showing off what they had. So much wealth, all in one place. His father a weakling blustering toad just waiting to be squashed, good with trade but not much else, and soon a rack to blame it all on when he made his plans come alive.

  * * *

  Van Gast sauntered into a drift-inn in Estovan’s delta, a shanty shack held together with driftwood and hope. The delta wasn’t a place for the faint of heart, but that had never been his problem. Outside the forbidding walls, the city spread out among the islands, some more permanent than others. The alleys became little more than twisted muddy paths crowded either side with buildings. The guards didn’t like it down here, where they couldn’t see farther ahead than three steps, where every window might hide a rack and his pistol.

  The farther out into the delta you went, the more rickety everything became. Buildings only held up by their neighbors, water-raptors that became impatient for a meal to fall into one of the brackish waterways and waited around a corner for drunkards. Sucking patches of sand to grab the unwary, vast reeking banks of blister-kelp along the seaward shores that might do the same to those foolhardy or brave enough to try to harvest the bladders. All of it moving, shifting with sea and tide, sometimes slow, sometimes alarmingly quick. You couldn’t be sure the same building would be there two days running, but you could be sure of some things.

  In the delta, anything went and everything was for sale, which meant that every third person was a racketeer. It was just their sort of place, and Forn’s bells chimed over the noise of traders, hawkers, hucksters, gamblers, lovers, tumbles, prostitutes and drunks.

  Van Gast took his time looking around, nodding to one or two racks he knew. The thrill of danger, of the thought they might just turn him in, fizzed his blood. The inn still looked the same—splintered wood bled to gray by salt and wind, scraps of glass for windows held in place by string, nails and spit. Not an inn for staying in, unless you were poor or desperate. An inn for drinking, gambling and fighting in, not to mention finding your tumble for the night. An inn for meeting Josie in, the last time he’d been here. He was hoping he’d find her here again, or at least word of her.

  The taproom was thick with fug and the heady smoke of rend-nut, but it didn’t take him long to see her. A head of white-blond hair flickered between the darker mainlanders. Unmistakable. She had her back to him and he strolled over, hoping he looked more nonchalant than he felt. She wanted him to catch her, he was sure of it. Van Gast stroked the hilt of the glass dagger through his shirt, safely tucked away. Catch me if you dare, she’d said. Yes, she’d given him every sign.

  The chatter of the inn died as he walked up behind her. Everyone knew their hatred, that they’d take any and every opportunity to try to kill each other or, if that wasn’t possible, con each other hard enough to bleed. Everyone knew, and they were wrong, dead wrong, or had been. Maybe now it was no longer a show on her part. The air stilled, even the rend-nut smoke stopped swirling as everyone waited for the fight, the one that would surely end it now, after she’d stolen Van Gast’s ship and sailed it here, the one place he was wanted more than any other.

  The large bulk of Skrymir sat to one side of her with a wide grin plastered over his face. Skrymir, last seen at the helm of Van Gast’s ship as Josie stole it, was a big, muscled Gan, the only other fair hair in the place, maybe even in Estovan. Fair hair was rare here, where everyone was dark of skin and hair and eye. He’d taken on with Josie’s crew because he was Gan and he’d oathed and that was what they did, for the good of their soul. Van Gast didn’t hold it against him and they shared a companionable nod.

  Someone else was at the table, no one Van Gast recognized. A young mainlander, a rack right enough with bells on his ankle, his dark hair loose and rakish like Van’s own, the clothes bright, garish even. Josie had her hand on his, spoke soft, slow words at him that Van Gast couldn’t hear but burned his gut nonetheless, made him hesitate, considering.

  The game was gone, surely, blasted away with her ship. The game where they pretended hatred and laughed at the people who believed it. The whole business with the Remorians had surely ruined that game, that twist that they reveled in. Yet the whispers had started now, the bets on who would outclass who with the sword.

  Her low, smoky voice became clearer, and he heard the words as he was surely meant to. “If you want to join my crew, you have to prove yourself. Kill the man standing behind me.”

  Either the game wasn’t over, or it was no longer a game. Hard to tell but Van Gast’s little-magics, his trouble bone, told him no trouble.

  Well, maybe a bit.

  The young rack flicked his gaze up to Van Gast, flinched, and then flicked it back to her again. “But that’s—”

  “I know very well who it is,” she interrupted. “If you can’t, or won’t, kill him, you’ll not get a place on my crew.”

  “But you might get one on mine,” Van Gast said, and flung himself into the seat opposite her with a calculated dispassion that was entirely fake.

  Joshing Josie to everyone else, Butterfly Josie to him, too slippery to be pinned, and he’d tried, very hard. She was grinning at him, the lopsided grin that made his heart race with the thrill of it, that always made him wonder which it would be this time—rob you to within an inch of your life, kill you without a second thought or give you the night of your life. He’d crossed her, though, betrayed her trust, and so right now that was more in doubt than ever, and his blood sang in his ears.

  The stupid-but—thrilling thing to do, to want, to chase his Josie. She’d lured him here, was grinning at him, and she hadn’t tried to kill him. Yet. Always a positive sign.

  The young rack faded into the background as Van Gast studied Josie. It was all he could manage not to grab her there and then, kiss her right now in front of everyone. If he did that, he’d lose his chance for sure, so he held on to himself with an effort and watched her closely instead, drank her in, the changes to her that he’d not had the chance, time or light to see at Bilsen, and too, the sameness of her.

  The braids in her hair had gone, only the Gan family braid of black and gold remaining. All the little bits of silk and shells and mementos that would remind her of him, of cons they’d run, days and nights they’d spent, of who’d they’d been together, were gone, as though she’d erased him, wanted to blot how he’d hurt her from memory. Instead, her hair, burned white-blond by the sun, lay in a relaxed plait over her shoulder.

  Slippery Butterfly Josie, who never gave up till the end of the chase, who had slipped away from him, stolen his ship—and left him with a wedding dagger and a faraway, lopsided grin just asking to be kissed, chased, caught. The cool weight of the glass dagger in his shirt reassured him. Play the game—pretend the hatred, where all knew how much they wanted to kill each other, how much they hated each other, were desperate to out-rack each other, and it was a lie, a con, the biggest s
cam of all. Then the nights they were alone—it gave Van Gast a flutter in his stomach to think on those. Josie was here, waiting for him to catch her, to show her, love her. He wouldn’t entertain any other possibility.

  A shade thinner than she had been, gaunter around the cheeks and hollow at the eyes, but still built like a dancer, not a fighter. All smooth, hard muscle and soft curves. Never one thing or the other, at least to him. The grin was the same, dimpling one cheek in a way that made Van Gast think of naughty imps. Sexy naughty imps.

  The eyes though—he wasn’t sure about the eyes, the gray of a thousand fathoms of sea, of waves before a storm. Before, they’d always softened for him, at least in private. This wasn’t private, far from it, and maybe she was playing the game. Or maybe she’d lured him here for another reason, because of what he’d done to her, the way he’d betrayed her because he’d been half-mad with jealousy, not knowing that all she’d done had been to save him from the bond. Josie wouldn’t take that lightly, no rack took betrayal any way but deadly serious. Those eyes were hard as steel, unforgiving as a sword in the gut. The cold click of a gun being cocked and the glimpse of it in her hand under the table made him think swiftly, and hope. She’d had the chance to kill him in Bilsen and hadn’t.

  The game, stay with the game.

  “I’ve got a spare copper or two, Josie. How about it? You do the kinky stuff, right?”

  The grin changed, less hard, more real, and there was sudden warmth in her eyes again, a playfulness in her voice that maybe only he could hear. “See, for any of these other fine gentlemen, I’d consider it. Rob them after, naturally. But for you, Van? There isn’t enough money in the world. Now, can you give me a reason not to make good use of this gun?”

  “The one woman who won’t have Van Gast at any price, eh?” one of the racks behind them said. “It’s a sore thing, when a man such as you can’t get you any tail, Van.”

  A low chorus of snickers from the other racks set Van Gast’s course before the gale. He swung the chair on its front legs, ducked away from the gun and tipped Josie into his lap. The chair’s legs thunked back to the boards, and Van Gast grabbed for the hand that held the gun. His other arm snaked round her waist and held her tight against him. Kyr’s mercy, she felt good there. “That a good enough reason?”