by Julia Knight
It had been a while since he’d played Mr. Ibsen, and never inside the city walls of Estovan. Utterly stupid, entirely thrilling, naturally. And naturally, the thought of not going never even crossed his mind. She was going to twist the Yelen, he could feel it, and he was going to go with her, wipe that hurt from her eyes and heart.
Van Gast in the Yelen palace. Now that was a thought to keep him warm.
* * *
Holden took Tallia down belowdecks, his hand on her arm. She shook like a leaf in the wind, kept trying to start sentences but seemed unable to finish them.
He got her inside the brig and turned the key in the lock. She didn’t protest, didn’t say anything, but the sparse tears on her cheeks were enough to prick at his conscience.
“Tallia—” he began, but he didn’t know what it was he wanted to say. He should be on an upper deck, with his newly happy wife, but found he wanted to stay here. He held on to the bars of the brig, took comfort in the cool smoothness, the straight lines, the order of them.
“I was trying to help. I was, I promise.” Her voice seemed small down here.
He left her there but stopped at the top step to look back down. That bright energy was gone, flowed away like a tide. Instead he saw only listlessness. Not bonded, at least. Not that. Van will let her out when this is all over, or when he’s made sure of her. It’s sensible, to keep her in here. Yet his steps were heavy.
He opened the door to his quarters, expecting a cold Ilsa, more icy barriers. The scar on his wrist burned as he thought on it, as it always did. Tempting him with the thought of knowing always what to say or do, because he was bonded. He shoved the thought away. Freedom had cost too much for him to wish the bond back. Too late for that, too late maybe for him and Ilsa.
For a heartbeat he thought he had the wrong cabin. The drapes were closed against the coming dawn, the room was softly lit and a smiling woman stood by the bed. Smiling at him, coming to take his hand in hers. Ilsa, and he barely recognized her. Had known her too long as either blank-eyed from the bond or chilled and confused by freedom from it. Yet now she smiled, her eyes looking at him with warmth.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have—”
Holden felt a smile pull at his own lips. He’d waited long weeks for a thaw in the chill, a crack in their barriers, a sign that he wasn’t the only one trying. He put a soft finger over her lips. “No. No, you’ve nothing to be sorry for. For feeling when you’ve not known how to. It’s hard, I know.”
She kissed his finger and then blushed at her own forwardness. Everything else was forgotten, and Holden kissed her, they kissed each other, husband and wife again. Not just bonded together, but wanting together. She was smooth and soft beneath his hand, beneath the silky dress, and he pulled her closer, pulled all her softness to him. She sighed under his lips, and that was all he’d wanted, for her to be happy in their new freedom. He pulled away a little, let his fingers trace around her familiar face, along her smooth neck to make her shiver.
“Are you sure?” He couldn’t make his voice above a whisper, couldn’t seem to explain what was in his heart. That all he’d wanted was for her to be happy, even if that meant she left.
She seemed to know, anyway. “We were bonded, but I still loved you, still do love you. I was lucky, and was bonded to a good and kind man.”
Holden hesitated, his lips by her ear so that he need not see her face as he gave her a chance, a way out if she wanted it. “We aren’t bonded now. I won’t hold you to it, if—”
She wriggled free so she could see him and he could see the darkness of her eyes as she held his face. “Don’t. Don’t push me away again. Be with me Holden, in your head. Forget…forget all that before. Let me in.”
Forget all that before—forget the way his dreams had swirled in his head and come alive, forget finding Josie again, the woman he’d loved long ago before the bond had swallowed his memory of her. Forget one night with her, thinking she still loved him when she was just trying to save Van Gast.
Forget that he’d killed the Master, freed everyone, because of how she’d loved Van Gast and he’d wanted to give her that.
The ice between him and Ilsa had been guilt on his part, guilt mixed up with wanting Ilsa to be happy, having a heavy duty to, and not knowing how to make it happen. Something had happened to her, because she was happy now, had smiled to greet him, kissed him, loved him. His heart could deny her nothing if it made her happy.
So he forgot everything that wasn’t her, everything that wasn’t part of keeping her happy. He kissed her and remembered them, who they’d once been, what they’d once meant. She was soft and warm, and he sank into her, let her envelop him in warmth, wrapped her in heat of his own.
Later, when they lay in their bed, rimed with sweat, her head on his shoulder, it was the closest he could recall to being happy himself.
Chapter Eleven
Van Gast sat at his desk the next afternoon, brandy to hand, cups and dice spread out in front of him. He’d had no sleep and his eyes felt gritty, but he needed to work this out. Without looking, he put three dice into the cups, swirled them around. Roll up, roll up, find the lady, win a prize.
He lifted the cups. Three mermaids. Three ladies. The itch in his chest was driving him mad, scrabbling like a trapped rat. He took a swig of brandy as a knock came at the door.
When he called, Holden came in looking pensive, odd. Too damn serious, as usual.
Van Gast turned back to the cups and dice. There had to be a way to find out. “What is it?”
“Just what I was going to ask you.” Holden made himself comfortable in a chair and watched him swirl the cups again. “Why did you have me put Tallia in the brig? She’s—”
Van Gast pulled out the first message, the one asking him to go to the temple, and passed it over. “Someone is trying to set me up, get me hanged or bonded or, I don’t know, dead. Josie didn’t write that, or send it.”
Holden barely even glanced at the paper. “You’re sure?”
Van Gast smiled to himself and took another swig of brandy that did nothing to ease the burn in his ribs. “How sure can anyone be when it’s Josie we’re talking about? Pretty sure, same as I can be pretty sure I won’t get caught in a typhoon in Sarigin, or that a tidal wave won’t drown us all at midnight. Pretty sure, not certain. She left me this one too, one I know was hers.”
Holden studied the two messages, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “Kyr’s Palace? And who’s Mr. Ibsen?”
“Never mind that. Someone wanted me at the temple, made sure I’d be there at the same time as a whole load of Yelen guards. Someone was there to tell them which one was me. I heard them. A woman’s voice. A voice I know, I’m sure, but I can’t place it—it was too quiet.”
Van Gast swirled the cups again. A mermaid for Josie, one for Tallia sitting in his brig, one for…who? Was there someone else? Someone he was blind to? Gilda? She’d always been a twisty little madam and had never quite forgotten Van Gast turning down her offer of a tumble all that time ago. Yet that wasn’t enough to drive her to this. Racks didn’t betray racks, not for so little. Maybe for ten thousand sharks…
Holden’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. “Seems wherever you go, someone wants to kill you.”
“That, Holden, is half the fun. Stopping them and then thumbing your nose at them after. Reminds me.” He flicked his thumb along his nose in Holden’s direction.
Holden flushed at that reminder, but when he spoke, it wasn’t of his previous failure to kill Van Gast. “What are you going to do then?”
Van Gast gathered the set of nine dice together and slid them into their pouch, carefully. The man he’d won them from had told him of the magic in them, used to conjure double kraken when he wanted, and also of other, more dire consequences should he roll Dead Man’s Hand. “Follow the money, run the twist, steal back Josie and then get the fuck out of port. What else?”
“And if someone is setting you up?”
<
br /> Van Gast took another swig of brandy and savored the burn in his throat. “It’s not just me, I’m sure of it. Not just me.”
Because the itch had been worse since Josie came, since she’d told him the message wasn’t hers, and he didn’t think it burned that way just for him. She was dicing with more than death, going up against the Yelen, and she knew it. Yet she was too damn stubborn to quit, to leave without getting whatever it was she came for. Never gave up till the end, his Josie.
He smiled at the memory of her on his bed, so close and yet not caught. Never caught. Dancing just out of reach, as always, tantalizing and tempting. That was part of what this twist was about, he was sure of that. Taunting him with herself, just how he liked it.
“Then why are you going? Kyr’s mercy, man, we know where she’s berthed. You should get her and we’ll leave. Today. The tide will be right in a couple of bells.”
Van Gast couldn’t explain it, not so that Holden would understand. That this was what he lived for, what made him know he was alive. That there was no way in the Deeps Josie would go anywhere until she had what she wanted. That if this was what it took to make it up to her, to make things right between them, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Besides which, there was a fortune to be had somewhere inside that palace, and he trusted Josie enough to know she had a plan, a twisty little plot to get it.
So instead he said “You’ll have to stay here. They’ll spot you for a Remorian straight off. So you’ll stay here and see what you can get out of Tallia, if anything. There’s something about her. Be ready to sail the instant I get back.”
“Van, I—” Holden shook his head, stood up and went to watch the tide from the window.
“You’re captain while I’m gone, that’s what you are. Try acting like it. If you want to sail off before I get back, there’s not a thing I can do about it, but I’m going and that’s flat. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to see to.”
* * *
Rillen’s mind was no longer on Van Gast. Not yet. He didn’t go to arrest but to tease, to tempt his target in. He had to admit, the mages and his little Laceflower had helped him weave a deft web to catch the racks in, and he was part of the glue that would hold them there. They were going to out-con the racks.
He adjusted the set of his smartest tunic, gold braid over blue silk with golden buttons, for official functions. His trousers were of the same silk, a deep sky blue. Even the scabbard for his sword and the holster for his pistol were lined in the same material, topped with his father’s crest—a leaping dolphin.
He trotted down the steps and out of the palace, into the tightly controlled area that surrounded the licensed trading docks. Here, all was calm and order in a chaotic city. The broad paved avenue was lined with trees to shade any walkers from the harsh sun and to scent the night air. Tall, elegant houses painted in pastel shades faced the pleasure-craft marina where the now sadly depleted council and their families kept yachts and barges for entertaining their trading partners or seducing new merchants into believing they were the safest investment, the highest quality traders with the most sought after merchandise. They were sharks, perfumed sharks dressed up in silks and dripping diamonds, but sharks nonetheless.
The fat, wallowing merchant ships sat trim and tidy in their berths, their gunships standing to outside the harbor wall. The rattling chime of Forn’s bells filled the air as their crews bustled about, making everything orderly before they headed outside the docks and into the fleshpots of Estovan. Each would be stamped with a long-lasting ink on their way out, and the design, changed every day, checked on their way in. His guards stood at attention all along the wharf, keen-eyed and serious.
He stepped through the checkpoint with a terse nod to his guards and made the short trip to Kyr’s Palace—a sumptuous and thoroughly respectable establishment that none of the crewmen would ever have a hope of entering. Part inn, part meeting house, it was a way point, a place for those not licensed to deal with those who were. Maybe not where the biggest deals were struck—that was inside the licensed area—but influential people made a point of stopping here, of cultivating new contacts, maybe up-and-coming merchants trying to weasel a license with backhanders and under-the-table offers. A shark pool but a palatial one, and one where Rillen felt very much at home.
The space inside wasn’t one bar as such, more a succession of little cubbies and alcoves, dimly lit, discreet, decked out in velvet. Each cubby was decorated in a different color, and from the main bar, where quiet-voiced waiters poured out drinks, it was impossible to see into any one of them. A corridor of sorts snaked around them, past etched-glass partitions that let in light but not prying eyes.
None of the waiters met his eye or stopped him as he made his way to the black cubby. They all knew him very well. Most were at least partly in his employ, passing on tidbits they heard that might benefit him or the Yelen.
He paused a moment before he went in to meet his guests. This had to look good or the whole thing would fall apart. Thanks to his deadly Lady Laceflower and what she’d told him, he was going to get Van Gast where it hurt most, but he had to play his part to perfection.
Rillen pushed open the swinging glass partition and stepped into the cubby. It was one of the smaller ones, very cozy for those intimate chats. Black velvet drapes on the walls, black silk upholstered benches, a table made of polished jet, the darkness of the décor brightened with silver lamps and silver inlay in the table. Little clear crystals had been sewn into the wall drapes and the ceiling, all done in the patterns of constellations. Oku’s Boar, the Swan, the Ship of Dreams, the dread Night Ship that could lead a man astray and the Guiding Light of Kyr that brought him home again.
The man who stood as he entered seemed to fill the room, a full head above Rillen, broad and solid as mountains. He held out a hand like a ham and Rillen shook it, knowing it was their way, hoping no fingers would be broken.
“Lord Brimeld, it’s an honor to meet you, and a pleasure that your country can now send its ambassadors to us, thanks to the destruction of the Remorian empire. Hopefully this can be the beginning of a fruitful trading relationship.”
“Brimeld” murmured his thanks and turned to the woman sitting beside him. Her brown hair—dyed, even if expertly—was wrapped in a prim bun under a blue silk scarf. Sharp gray eyes appraised him as she held out a demure hand for Rillen to kiss.
“My wife, the Lady Amana,” the fake lord said.
Rillen held in his grin. Amana and Brimeld, ambassadors for the Gan from far across the ocean. Or, as they were more usually known, Joshing Josie and her new first mate, Skrymir.
The surprise had been finding out that Josie wasn’t Van Gast’s enemy, never had been despite the public fights, the long feud between them, despite what the mages had thought and tried to use. Just another con, and one Rillen intended to use to his advantage now that he knew of it. He’d given them his answer to their proposal, brought them here, where it was safe enough to find out what they were up to, what scam they thought they could run. Then use it, and them.
Rillen slid into the seat opposite them. He’d spent his time well since he’d taken his reply. They’d arrived in Estovan a few days ago, but not like this. Yet their identities were well made. “Lord Brimeld” was supposedly both a duke and ambassador. From what Rillen could gather, the real Lord Brimeld was both. Rather than a letter of credit, as was more usual on the western coast, this “lord” had an official seal which looked authentic, and at least two of the more traveled merchanters had agreed on that, and on Brimeld’s name.
They were very slick, he had to give them that. Skrymir looked every inch a duke in an impeccable heavy wool tunic that came down to his knees, sky blue like Rillen’s but with a white stag emblazoned across it. The blue-and-white were matched in the family braid every Gan wore in their hair, the colors proclaiming his house, and the braid signifying he was an honorable man with no broken oaths. Josie wore a heavy brocade dress in the same blue, one that pinch
ed in her waist with a square-cut neckline, both demure and revealing—Rillen had no idea if that was what Gan women wore, but it was entirely too warm for this climate and had brought a sheen of sweat to her brow.
A waiter came for their order and swiftly returned with drinks and Rillen’s usual finger food, pickled squid. He always liked to deal with a full stomach and the squid wasn’t what you’d call a usual dish. It was several months old and had been pickled in whey until it began to ferment. A very acquired taste, and serving it almost always put the other man at a disadvantage. To refuse and maybe insult Rillen? Or to eat and gag on it?
Josie picked one up and ate it with every indication of enjoyment, her eyes half-closed and staring straight at Rillen, a lopsided smile on her face as she licked her fingers, quite at odds with the demure nature of her hair and dress. She winked at him when she saw him watching.
Rillen had heard about Josie—who hadn’t? Joshing Josie, as like to kill you without the blink of an eye, rob you blind or give you the time of your life. She used her face and body as much as she used her brains, getting marks onside with a sweet promise of later, then, when lust distracted them, robbing them before they got the chance. Not Rillen’s sort of woman—he went for dark, soft and petite, obliging rather than contrary—but he’d still best be wary and on his guard.
“So, Lord Rillen—” the bogus Brimeld began.
Rillen cut him off. “Not lord, we have no lords here. Just a son of the council.”
“Then, Rillen, your men have given you our proposal?”
Josie picked up another piece of squid and let it slither down.
Rillen tried to direct his talk at the bogus lord, but it was difficult when he knew she was the brains behind whatever they were trying to pull. “Yes, and the council would be very interested. We see few enough Gan here, but even so, your steel and the quality of your swords speak for themselves. In return, guns. Is it true you have none?”
“Not a one.” Brimeld smiled, as though patient with some poor sod who didn’t understand what trials he had to endure. “Very few ships come to Ganheim from the east, and until now only what the Remorians would let pass—they controlled the center of the sea lanes, what came through and what did not. We’re not a strong sailing nation, only for fishing and for pleasure. Not much for trade except along our own coasts. Perhaps why our ship foundered, and we had to take on with a different crew. Racks you call them, I understand? And yes, guns…guns are not something most Gan would appreciate. They run contrary to our ways, our more rigid customs. Not honorable, before Oku. I don’t suppose the Remorians thought we’d make them much money and so we never even knew guns existed.”
