by Julia Knight
First he had to find where Josie was berthed. He wrenched open the door to his quarters, strode across the deck—quiet now during the hottest part of the day, when most everyone slept—to the stairwell, dove down into the cramped darkness below and opened a door without knocking. It was his ship, after all.
Guld fell off his chair, the silver ball of magic balanced on his palm disappearing with a faint popping sound. He landed in a heap of tatty robes, stammering, “Van, I—um—”
Van Gast took pity on him, helped him up and tried not to be too impatient while Guld dusted himself down and arranged his robes so the burn marks didn’t show too much.
Finally, Van Gast couldn’t wait any more. “Well? Have you found where she’s berthed?”
Guld blushed and stared down at his stained fingers, the mark of his magic. Kyr’s mercy, he was such a mouse, but very good with his magic, which was why Van Gast kept him on. Well, possibly a bit of pity crept in there—Van Gast was determined to find Guld a lady for himself at some point. If Guld could ever get a sentence out in the presence of any woman over sixteen and under sixty without twice as many “ums” as words.
“Not yet, Van. There’s, um, hundreds of places she could be and—”
“And what? What do I pay you for?”
Guld ticked off on his fingers. “Weather control, scrying, contact with other racketeers and their mages, occasional explosions.”
“And finding people I ask you to find, add that to your list. Comes under scrying, I expect. You’ve asked the other ship’s mages? Someone must have seen her, the ship, something.”
“I’m sorry, she’s running without a mage at the moment, so no one’s been in contact with her. If she’s in port—”
Van Gast recalled the taste of her lips on his, all sea salt and wind and wide skies. The hint of her wink, the hint that he had a chance still, of glorious, scamming, thieving possibilities. A chance of her. He wasn’t sure which made his heart beat faster. “She’s here, for sure. And planning something. Something big.”
“Well then, she’s keeping quiet about it. I dare say she’s altered the ship enough it won’t be mistaken for yours. It could take me days, maybe a week, Van. Sorry.”
Van Gast sagged into the chair, all the wind out of his sails. If he could find the ship, he could sneak in, no problem. Sneaking was second nature, and once in, he could be alone with her, and that was always his best bet. In public she was all sharp sword and sharper words, brittle and dangerous. Alone…alone she was something else, the other side of her, the soft part. Alone he could make her see, he was sure of it, and then they could plot and plan and come out rich as kings. After he’d spent a good long time making up for lost time in bed. The thought of that part brought him out in a sweat.
“All right, you haven’t found her. Yet. Keep looking. In the meantime, anything else for me? What are all the other racks up to? Where’s the gap, the opportunity? Where’s the money?”
Guld’s hesitant grin crept across his face, shy and quiet like the mouse he was. He became all business. “As you’d expect, with all this going on, there’s plenty of thievery. Small stuff mostly—the Yelen guards are clamping down on everything, hard. Concentrating on inside the city walls, to be sure, but they’ve come out into the delta a couple of times the last week, so I hear. A lot of racks are taking what they can and leaving. Too dangerous, for now. Waiting for it all to cool down. Don’t you think you should—”
“No, I do not. What else?”
Guld twisted his fingers, his stammer coming back at Van Gast’s insistence. “The Y-y-yelen, they, well I think they’re planning something too. Merchantmen inside the palace, maybe just for safety but that’s never happened before—they usually stay in their houses on the avenue by the licensed docks. Maybe one or two inside the palace at a time, negotiating and whatnot. Now there’s all those who keep a house in port, and a dozen or more of the bigger traders from as far as Tanara. Rumors of some sort of trade reception, renegotiations of contracts, that the Yelen are wanting to expand now the Remorians are no longer a power.”
“Are they now? Interesting.”
“And the Yelen have Remorian mages to help them. Weak, as yet, but it won’t take long to grow those crystals back, at least enough that they could blow me to bits without thinking about it. And the bonding—the rumors are right about that. All ex-slaves they find, they’re rebonding them, or executing them if they’re too far gone.”
Van Gast rubbed at the fading scar on his wrist. A mage-bond, a magical shackle to your body, heart and mind. He’d only borne it for a few minutes at most, and that had been enough. Josie had suffered one for weeks, for him, to try to save him but he’d—he’d not think about that. Holden and Ilsa and his new crew had borne them all their lives, and now were finally free. It had taken a lot of sacrifice, betrayal and blood to get them that freedom, and he’d be damned by Kyr if he’d let them go back.
Yet the Yelen welcoming the merchanters into the palace—that was interesting. Very interesting. Josie couldn’t sneak in and pretend to be one, and nor could her first mate Skrymir—both Gan, both too fair of skin and blond of hair. Too obviously not mainlanders. No matter Josie had got rid of her braids, one look at the pair of them and you knew them for racks—they had to be, they weren’t Estovanians or merchanters or even Remorians. Skrymir could pass for a bodyguard, but Josie? Besides, racking was all in the attitude, and Josie couldn’t shrug that off. She always ended up threatening someone with a bullet in the face before long—diplomacy wasn’t a strong point. But Van Gast could take up the façade, could pretend and charm and flatter-slick his way through any crowd. He’d done so many times before, in cons and twists and scams. Maybe that’s what she wanted him for. To get in, among the Yelen.
“Guld, I need you to do something for me. If the Yelen are rounding up Remorians, then I can’t send any of the crew. But you’ll be all right. I need a merchanter outfit, like the one I had aboard the Ghost.”
Guld nodded earnestly. “Even the corset?”
Van Gast sighed. “Sadly, even the corset. And don’t forget the pig fat for my hair.” Although he rather would—it stunk like off bacon and always took forever to get out. “Needs must when a woman has your heart and is ready to twist it out. Also, when there’s money to be made, young Guld.”
Van Gast made his thoughtful way back to his quarters. A snifter of brandy would be just the thing while he sat and thought about what all this meant, planned how to get into the palace. His head bubbled with the possibilities, and he had no doubt, no doubt at all, that if this was what Josie was after. She’d have a plan twistier than a ball of string. This was going to be glorious. He threw himself into the captain’s chair, put his feet on the desk and reached for the brandy.
When he lifted it to pour, a piece of paper came with it, stuck to the sticky drips on the bottom. That hadn’t been there earlier, he was sure of it. He sloshed a good measure of brandy into the glass and sipped at it while he studied the slip of paper.
His name was written in a bold, sure hand on the front. That narrowed the sender down. Most racks could read and write—except Josie and Skrymir, because most Gan considered learning their letters to be outlandish and never bothered. But again, while most racks could read all right, writing was a stick-your-tongue-out-in-concentration affair, and they kept to writing their names and maybe the odd rude word or two to scrawl on outhouse doors. Van Gast managed a bit better, because as a captain he had to, but this writing was the hand of someone who wrote well and often. A hired scribe? Best open it and find out.
He scanned it quickly, saw the name at the bottom, and read it again.
Van,
I need you to meet me at the Godsquare, by Herjan’s temple. Sunset.
Josie.
Van Gast rubbed at his breastbone, at the itch that had started there. His little-magics, his trouble bone. And just what sort of trouble? Josie couldn’t write, though he supposed she could have got someone to do it f
or her. Only why would she give the game away by hiring a scribe? Pretending to hate each other, that was half the fun for her. Well, and for him. Besides, it had always helped them scam the living daylights out of all and sundry. If she was giving that up, it had to be something big, something important. Maybe something dangerous and stupid for him to thrill over, like scamming the Yelen.
Only…only this wasn’t like Josie, not at all. Or not like the Josie she had been. Van Gast hiccupped against the burn in his chest. Only one way to find out. Either way, he’d see Josie. He cast a look out the window. Not long till sunset—already the sun was lowering toward the sea, lighting up all the little shanties of the delta in red and orange, making them seem almost attractive. He sipped his brandy and considered. Best not go too obviously as Van Gast. Not at the moment, no matter how much he enjoyed giving the guards the slip. He needn’t go overboard with it, because the guards wouldn’t know what he looked like.
He transferred his few bits and pieces to the less gaudy shirt he’d bought for spare, a deep green that was also handy for slipping into the shadows. Same with the breeches—a plain and dull brown—before he buckled on his pistol and sword, hid a few knives. It only took a few moments to scrape his hair back into a pigtail, and there, he looked just like a merchantman’s crewhand. Except for the bright red boots, but there wasn’t much he could do about them, not having any others, and he’d die and go to the Deeps before he braved Estovan barefoot.
He considered going out via the deck, but Holden would be bound to ask questions, raise objections about him going inside the city walls, off to where the danger—and thrill—was tenfold. Best not to worry him. Instead, Van Gast slipped out the window, down a rope and onto the jetty before, with a jaunty whistle, he strode off along the wharf as though he owned it.
* * *
As the sun approached the horizon, Holden left the crews to their meal below. Gilda was holding court among a drove of new admirers and Tallia slid in among them as though she belonged, laughing at the more risqué talk and fielding the over-friendly hands of the newly hired racks. She made Holden ill at ease somehow, with her effortless smile and her sunny enthusiasm. He wondered if he had little-magics like Van Gast whether they’d be itching right now, and why.
He made his thoughtful way along the deck, thinking to talk to Van Gast. He wanted to be talking to Ilsa, but he still couldn’t quite grasp the words he needed that would make everything all right between them, that would broach the ice that had grown around them. At times he wished he still had the bond on, because then he’d have no need to think on it.
The first mate told him Van Gast was in his quarters and he went there first, hoping to settle his mind about Tallia. He knocked on the door and, when there was no answer, peered in. Peculiar. Van Gast’s new clothes were strewn carelessly across the bed in a riot of clashing colors. A glass of brandy on the desk, half drunk—most unusual. In Holden’s experience, Van Gast didn’t believe in half-drunk anything.
Van Gast had been behaving oddly, to say the least. Or maybe this was how he usually was, a thought that made Holden’s stomach churn. He didn’t really know that much about the man, when it came down to it. He didn’t mean to pry, but the open slip of paper was there on the desk for all to see. A message from Josie.
The door opened again behind him and Holden turned, feeling guilty for intruding. Ilsa stood there, looking beguiling in her new dress. The pale green brought out the chestnut in her hair and she glowed. The bodice was low cut and it looked as if she’d made it even lower. The silk clung to every curve. Holden could barely tear his eyes away, until a tiny little worm of a thought popped into his head. Why was she coming to Van Gast’s quarters dressed like that? He struggled to find words, any words that would bring her back to him.
“You look very beautiful” was all that came to mind.
Ilsa smiled, a pale wan thing full of the ice between them, and came in. Her perfume wafted round Holden, of jasmine and spice. He couldn’t recall her ever wearing perfume before. “Where’s Van?”
Holden dropped the note back onto the desk. “Gone to the Godsquare.”
Ilsa came to the desk and glanced at the note. Holden burned with the nearness of her—and the distance. She picked up the note and then dropped it as though it was of little consequence, but her lips pinched.
Holden wanted to take her hand, wanted to kiss her as he had done once, kiss her to make it all better, to soothe her, comfort her. But her hunched shoulder was cold, her eyes colder.
“Ilsa—”
She cut him off with a turn of her shoulder, her hands rattling among the things on Van’s desk. “What do I have to do?” she asked, her face turned away, her voice small and afraid. “What do I have to do to make you come back to me?”
He wished she’d look at him. Any way, even the cold way. “I never left you. Please, Ilsa, I just want to make it right between us, but I don’t know how. I don’t know what you want, how to make you happy.”
He took her hands in his one but she pulled them away, her face scrunched in a frown. Her mouth worked as though she too struggled for words, and then she ran for the door, slamming it behind her. Holden hesitated, just a fraction, but enough that by the time he followed her, determined to do anything, say anything to make it up to her, make it right whatever it was, she was gone. Down the gangplank and disappearing into the crowded wharf under a sunset sky.
Tallia was right behind her.
It didn’t take Van Gast’s little-magics to know something odd was going on. Holden tried to calm his mind, tried to remember how patterns and order had once soothed him. But there was no pattern to this, no comfort in the straight lines of the planks along the deck, in the complicated tangles of rigging or in the equally tangled streets and shanties he could see. All was chaos and swirling shapes, like his mind.
He took a firm grip on himself, a deep breath that did nothing to calm him. Van Gast—something was going on, and Van Gast was in the middle of it, he was sure. Up to his neck in ten thousand gold sharks’ worth of trouble, and Holden knew just where Van Gast was going to be. Waiting for Josie by Herjan’s temple, waiting for a woman he’d betrayed and hoping she’d forgive him.
He could help Van, warn him perhaps, or he could follow Ilsa. It was time to make a choice, and he strode down the gangplank and out into the teeming, swirling chaos.
Chapter Seven
Van Gast let the crowds buffet him, kept his thieving hands in his pockets for once and his eyes open. The itch in his chest throbbed and burned, waxed and waned. Trouble somewhere, everywhere.
He came out of the delta, away from the vast, slow Est River that floated down all manner of things to trade from the interior. Over a last low bridge, dodging the slow water-raptor at the end, and onto the broad plaza that fronted the city proper, the buffer between the Yelen and the racks, licensed trade and underhanded dealing.
Heat radiated from the sand-colored city walls, shimmering the air over the crush of stalls, people and donkeys. Some of the more prestigious stalls were built of driftwood and silk, attached to the walls, but most were hastily arranged awnings on the vast plain of the plaza, some mere blankets laid on the ground.
As the day cooled and a fine dusk breeze sprang up to dry sweaty brows, more people squashed into the plaza until there was hardly a place to put your feet without stepping on something—feet bare or booted, tinkling with Forn’s bells or plain and silent. Trinkets for sale, herbs drying on blankets—a pungent bunch for every ailment from wart-eye to brewer’s droop. A stray orange, a child’s lost toy, or a water-raptor emboldened by hunger.
Van Gast insinuated his way through the heaving crowd and came to the dark entrance to the city—a narrow covered alley filled with traders, beggars, hawkers and guards. The farther in he got, the higher the quality and value of the goods on display, and the more guards.
Finally, the alley’s crowds spat him out into the Godsquare, the pulsing heart of the city full to bursting as the
evening’s trading got underway now the heat of the day waned. Surrounded on all sides by temples, filled with not just traders but priests of all the gods. Oku’s men praying for justice, who Van Gast avoided like they were catching, because he’d never been too big a fan of justice. Kyr’s mummers acting out a mercy play, to beg for compassion for those who needed it. Van Gast dropped a couple of copper fish-heads into the bowl. Mercy he was quite fond of, especially when it was directed his way.
He pushed toward the temples and the busiest crush of the square. A glance up at the walls made him stop in his tracks and he let the crowds wash round him as he stared.
Oku’s temple stood like a sentinel over the heaving square. The temple’s façade was blank of ornament, the windows dark and unforgiving, the lines of the building simple and stark. Oku, god of justice and oaths. The Yelen were displaying their brand of justice rather more prominently than they had in the past.
On either side of the arched door at the top of a broad set of steps, the walls were studded with people. Racks on one side, their gaudy clothes clotted with blood, each with one hand nailed to the wall above their head. On the other side Remorians, their bond scars livid in the searing late sunlight, nailed through that scar in each case, hanging from it just enough so their toes touched the steps. All their bells were silent now, except one. Only one was still alive—a Remorian, his copper-bronze skin shiny with sweat, blood running down his arm, over his shoulder, pooling at his feet. He writhed and twisted against the grip of the nail, frothed and foamed at the mouth, spouting incoherent babblings that seemed all too familiar to Van Gast.
He turned away, all the thrill curdling in his stomach like bad wine. In the heart of the city was no place to be right now, and he wouldn’t find what he was looking for at this temple.
