by Megan Derr
"I see. Thank you for explaining." Charlaine smiled briefly. "I'm glad he made it out and got to retire. Hopefully I'll be able to say the same for my friend someday." He would do whatever was necessary to ensure it, in fact.
He threw down his cards as the other two did and laughed as they all groaned to see he had four corners. Charlaine gathered up the few coins he'd won, thanked them for the game, and headed down into the belly of the ship, to the level where hammocks were strung for sleeping. Jac was tucked into one, still vaguely green but looking better than she had in days, some life to her eyes as she patiently listened to the sailor trying desperately to impress her with his overblown adventures.
He slapped the man's shoulder and gave it a congenial shake. "Aren't you supposed to be on shift soon, Hima?"
"I suppose," Hima said. "I'm almost finished with my story, though."
Charlaine dragged him away, and when they were at a suitable distance from Jac said, "She isn't going to return your interest, my friend, so best give it up."
"How do you know?" Hima's face fell.
"One, she's a Three-Headed Dragon, or haven't you noticed the tattoo low on her neck? Two, she's already taken—by someone in the imperial palace, no less."
Hima sighed. "A man can dream. Thanks, though."
Charlaine clapped him on the back. "Go try the cook. She's always admiring your chest and arms."
Casting him a look of disbelief, Hima shuffled off, leaving them alone save for a handful of snoring sailors. Returning to Jac, Charlaine smiled in greeting. "How are you feeling?"
"Better now you got him to shut up and go away. He's sweet, but Pantheon does he talk and talk and talk." She groaned and slumped further in her hammock. "Finished cheating at cards?"
"I never cheat at cards." At Jac's look, the corner of Charlaine's mouth ticked up. "Not with people who make far less than I."
Jac giggled. "So how did you finally make that guy go away? I've been trying to figure out a polite way to get rid of him for the past hour."
"I told him he was wasting his time flirting: that you were taken and also a merc."
Broadly speaking, sailors and soldiers were a bad combination logistically. There were plays, songs, and jokes about how often that particular pairing did not a good relationship make. Something 'working out like a sailor marrying a soldier' meant it was doomed to failure.
Jac's brows furrowed. "He was flirting?"
"It wasn't obvious?"
"Not to me, but in my defense, all sailors like to brag about their exploits. If that's his idea of flirting, he's terrible at it."
Charlaine gave her head a playful shove. "Sure. I'm starting to see why it took you so long to ask our secretary to tea, Dragon."
Jac shoved him back, though her efforts were weak, and climbed out of the hammock. "Speaking of tea, I would like to try food again. I'm really tired of sitting here wallowing like some noble undone by the weight of terrible gossip."
Snickering, Charlaine paused to grab the satchel he'd left with her, then led the way through the ship to the mess, where the cook was happy to feed them. The food was nothing exciting, but for ship food it wasn't bad. Once they were finished, he opened his satchel and drew out the map and a few other items inside.
"What's all this?" Jac said, still sipping slowly at a bowl of thin gruel made from lentils topped with salted fish.
"Captain Chass included a map of Soltorin for us, as well as a letter we're to give to a Lady Mark upon our arrival. How we're supposed to find her, he didn't bother to say, but I'm sure we'll sort that out upon arrival."
"I'm a bit dismayed how much of this we're figuring out as we come to it."
Charlaine snorted. "Every mission I ever undertook was 'figure it out when we get there.' Hard to plan when you rarely even know the whole of the problem. As to the map…" He rolled it out and used their empty dishes to hold the corners. "Here is where we'll make port. This is where Myra's clan is located." He picked up the little journal, bound in black leather, that had been with the other things. "According to Chass's notes, upon arrival they first have to report to their superior, which will also be the person who brokered the deal with the client and commissioned Iron Moon—likely someone part of the Triumvirate's ruling council, or someone not far removed from it. Who that is, Chass doesn't know, though I agree with him the client is likely to be Benta or Treya Mencee, though there are a couple of other places not outside the realm of possibility."
Jac broke up her ration of hardbread and soaked it in the gruel, interspersing bites of it with the hunk of cheese she'd been given. "Yeah, but nobody hates us quite like those two right now. Allen has been worried they'd start colluding at some point, if they haven't already, though spies haven't come back with anything firm."
"Wouldn't surprise me. Either way, the intermediary will most likely arrange a meeting somewhere in the city. Our trip will take another twenty to twenty-five days, if the weather cooperates. From the coast of Dethmane, it takes about ten to twelve days to reach the nearest port of Odon, and since they're probably taking a smuggling vessel, it could very well take them a day or two longer."
"Odon? They're not simply going straight to Soltorin?"
Charlaine gave a sharp shake of his head. "No, that much I actually know. There are only two public ports in all of the Triumvirate, both in Odon, and the nearest and most frequently used of the two is Odokka, right here." He tapped a spot on the map. "They may be using smugglers to travel between the two places, but they'll have to go to Odokka all the same. I sincerely doubt the meeting with their client will take place immediately. Such things always take a couple of days to arrange. So that is fourteen days. Say thirteen to be safe. They will also need time to gather supplies, since the location of the clan means crossing the lake won't save them any time. Even using their fliers, they'd still have to go through the mountains, so it's easier to loop around Soltorin, I think. That's another few weeks of travel."
"So our best bet is to get to the clan first, which means heading out almost immediately after we reach port. Skirt along the coast until we reach about here." She tapped a point of the map. "Then hike the rest of the way. Sounds marvelous. I hope this other clan doesn't mind us going through their territory."
"I'm sure Lady Mark will tell us what we need to know. Chass must have known, or at least suspected, some of these obstacles." Charlaine sighed. "This would be much easier if we were doing it under sanction."
Jac snickered. "Yes, things do tend to go smoother and faster when lubricated with Harken imperial crowns."
Charlaine gave her an unimpressed look for the play on words as he rolled up the map, returned it to its protective case, and put everything back in his satchel. "The hardest part of all this is that we don't have a silver tongue along. Hopefully that is a problem this Lady Mark can fix."
Jac frowned. "I still don't understand why Captain Chass is being so helpful. I mean, he's not actually the mortal incarnation of a Penance Beast the way everyone likes to say, but he's not usually like this, either."
"I think he meant it when he said he was doing this for Allen. I cannot begin to understand the relationship between those two, and I am happier far from it. All that aside, I find it easier to do as told and not ask too many questions when the orders are coming from a man whose military motto is darkness is dull, pleasure in pain."
"Ugh, true enough." Jac wrinkled her nose, the gesture far more adorable and endearing than Charlaine liked noticing. Even recovering from illness and far too pale, Jac was pretty.
Nor would Charlaine be forgetting any time soon just how good it had felt to fight at her side. She knew what she was about, the kind of soldier he could trust implicitly to have his back. Not to mention how much there was to admire in a person who was ready to go toe to toe with Chass, and that after snarling and sniping and beating the shit out of a slew of assassins and thugs.
She'd also felt good in bed, when he'd woken briefly and realized he'd shifted to cling a b
it. He'd almost moved away but had feared waking her. So he'd held as still as possible and focused on going back to sleep. Not on the way her skin smelled like jasmine, or how small she seemed when all that armor and fight-anyone temper was stripped away.
It made him think about all the other ways she'd be fun, and those were thoughts he definitely shouldn't be having. Hadn't he just told those sailors that Myra was her lover? He felt like the lowest sort of scoundrel, especially with the memory of Myra's kisses still haunting him. How could he go from pining after Myra, to kissing Myra ardently, to lusting after Jac? Pantheon, how did he get himself into these situations?
Not that any of that mattered until they rescued Myra. But there wasn't much to do on the ship save play cards, sleep, eat, and think too much. The captain would probably be more than happy to give him work to do, but the crew didn't seem to need extra hands.
"You look frustrated," Jac said.
Charlaine shrugged one shoulder. "There are just more variables than I like, and nothing much we can do about them. I try to minimize those when I go on a mission, and it frustrates me I cannot do that here. We are at the mercy of the ocean and time—and luck. Far too much of this rescue is going to rely on pure luck, and she is a capricious goddess."
"Luck has gotten us this far. I think she'll look after us a little longer. Hopefully. If not, I've out-stubborned worse." She frowned. "I think."
"You worked under Rene for how many years? Then Lesto, now Jader. I believe it."
Jac rolled her eyes and shoveled more food into her mouth. When she'd swallowed, she said, "Now that trivial matters have been discussed, we can begin with the important questions."
Charlaine's brows went up. "I'm afraid."
Snickering, Jac replied, "So tell me about Charlaine the stage boy."
"Not a chance," Charlaine said. "What's there to tell? I did all the stuff stage boys usually do."
Jac made derisive noises. "Please. I bet my left tit you got into plenty of mischief."
Neither looking at nor commenting on either one of Jac's tits, Charlaine replied, "As I said, all the stuff stage boys usually do."
At that, Jac laughed. "Well, tell me, tell me."
"Mostly I helped out around backstage, running errands, bringing the actors food and drink. I had to gather up all the flowers and trinkets thrown on stage after the show and deliver them to the right places. Though I always stole one or two blossoms from the larger bouquets to give to my mother."
"Was she an actress?"
"Bit parts only, but she loved it. Never really wanted all the work and trouble that came with being popular. She had suitors enough."
Jac pushed away her empty plate and drank more of her beer, made from rice and cut with water and lime juice, a staple on all Harken ships. "What about your father?"
Charlaine's mouth tightened.
"You don't have to say. I didn't mean to pry."
He shook his head. "It's not that. My father was a noble. When my mother died, he threw me at the army. When he died, my half-sister gave me some money if I agreed to leave well enough alone. Which I did, gladly." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Lord Wyiamar was my father."
Jac blinked at him. "The late Marquis of Sedar. The man who owns all those coffee fields? That Lord Wyiamar?" She whistled. "You should have fought for the title. I'm assuming you stood a chance, and that's why the sister paid you off."
Charlaine rolled his eye. "Yes. I didn't want it. Even now the thought gives me chills."
"Still, that's a lot of money and power. You could have probably bought Myra's freedom."
"Please." Charlaine snorted. "If I'd become some stupid Marquis, I'd never have met you or Myra. I'll stick with the decision I made, thanks."
That got him a positively stunning smile. Charlaine swiped her beer to keep his stupid mouth shut.
"Hey!"
Charlaine grinned as she stole it back. "So fair is fair: you know a bit about me and my scandalous upbringing. What was yours?"
"Psh. Scandalous. I was an orphan. Young one. I don't really remember anything before the orphanage. My story is the same as all the others: evil house mother, lousy food, borderline abuse. The lucky ones got apprenticed to good trade and craft shops. The unlucky—mostly anyone with a drop of Islander blood—got pressganged, and the rest of us fled to the army. So here I am."
"Here you are," Charlaine echoed dryly. "How does an orphan with as reckless an attitude as yours make it all the way to the Three-headed Dragons? Wait, never mind, I just answered my own question."
Jac threw the rind of her cheese at him. "Be quiet. I'll have you know it was my skill with a bow that got me an invite."
"Being a good marksman doesn't pass their entry test."
"It passes part of it, and I practiced the others so hard that most days I puked when I was finished. I only made it by a few points. I didn't have it as rough as some applicants."
Charlaine snorted again. "It would be difficult to be more miserable than Jagged Edge and their damnable endurance tests." They had good reason for it—all mercenary groups had good reasons for their entry tests. They weren't posturing or for bragging rights, as so many civilians and foreigners believed, though both happened anyway. Jagged Edge was a whole separate lesson on difficult. If Penance Gate was known for taking any fight, Jagged Edge would take any environment.
"How did you wind up in Fathoms Deep?"
"Terrag. When he was invited, he suggested me. Fathoms Deep investigated me and agreed—provided I passed the test of course."
"And you probably won't tell me what it is," Jac grumbled.
Charlaine smiled faintly. "Not allowed, sorry."
"Did you have to take Shattered Winds' tests?"
"No. Captain tel Mendi and his lieutenants agreed it wasn't necessary, given my record."
"Lucky."
"Very. I'm too old for entry tests."
Jac rolled her eyes. "Yes, so very old."
Charlaine smiled. "On that note, I'm going to grab a nap." He rose and slung the satchel over his shoulder. "Try to stay out of trouble."
She did that nose-wrinkle thing again. Was there a way to ask her to stop that wouldn't force him to admit the sorts of thoughts it provoked?
Clearly this whole situation with Myra was messing with his head. He'd known Jac, at least in passing, for years without ever thinking of her that way. What had changed?
Then again, the same could be said for Myra. But Charlaine always had been a slow burn sort; he'd never really been much for sex with people he didn't know well. The few exceptions were situations he'd either been desperate to escape loneliness or drunk enough to ignore himself.
"You're looking frustrated again," Jac said, frowning at him. "Are you certain you're all right?"
"I'm fine. Too many thoughts clamoring for attention, and nothing I can do about any of them." Charlaine shrugged, lifted a hand in parting, and trudged off. He settled in the hammock Jac had used earlier, making a pillow of the satchel and pulling up a thin but warm wool blanket to ward off the damp chill.
Despite his roiling thoughts, he eventually fell asleep.
*~*~*
He woke with a gasp, hard and aching, the details of his dream vanished but the memory of them making him perfectly fucking miserable. Charlaine gritted his teeth and thought of decidedly unpleasant things, like Myra being dead; being dishonorably discharged; getting Jac dishonorably discharged. Though, come to that, he had every faith Allen would have plenty to say about the matter, and mercy of the gods to those foolish enough to challenge the High Consort when he was riled.
A smile flickered briefly across his mouth as Charlaine thought of the few incidents he'd seen since becoming Kamir's bodyguard.
His levity faded at thoughts of Kamir, who had somehow slipped so easily from duty to friend. He was probably worried sick about Charlaine—and Jader would be on the warpath. Realms, the more he thought about going home, the more he realized he probably didn't have a hom
e to go to anymore. Nothing waiting for him now but a dishonorable discharge and some belongings to pack. He was fortunate that so much had changed under Sarrica's rule—under his father or grandmother, Charlaine's behavior would have resulted in execution.
Well, he'd certainly taken care of the problem of his hard dick.
Very carefully not thinking about all the solutions to the problem he would have preferred, Charlaine rolled out of the hammock and went to see what time it was and if there was food to be had.
As he climbed up through the ship, however, what he heard was music, singing and a whole lot of booze-laced laughter.
Reaching the main deck, he stepped outside and immediately saw a circle of barrels and other improvised seats, a trio of women playing instruments and two figures in the middle of the circle dancing what he thought was an Outland jig.
As he drew closer, he saw one of them was Jac, stripped to breeches and undershirt, not even wearing shoes, skin gleaming with sweat, short hair soaked, laughing as she danced with a sailor Charlaine recognized but whose name he hadn't yet learned. Both women moved gracefully, beautifully, clearly familiar with the dance.
Realms. He'd seen Jac move before but never like that. No wonder she was so effortlessly graceful.
The watching sailors cheered them on, lifting cups and bottles, some singing along, others making playful, lewd suggestions.
Charlaine joined the circle, approaching a seat with no occupant because he presumed the sailor passed out on the deck had been using it until recently. He made sure the man was all right, dragged him somewhere quieter and then claimed the empty seat. All around him people spoke in myriad languages—mostly informal Harken, but he also caught snatches of Outlander, Tricemorien, Gearthish and of course Islander.
Jac and the woman she was dancing with broke apart to dance side by side, hips swinging, legs moving faster than Charlaine would ever manage. He wasn't clumsy, but he wasn't a dancer either. Jac, however… He hadn't known she could dance. She moved with the skill of someone born to it, though from what he knew, she hadn't grown up in a troupe. The laces of her shirt were loose enough to catch a hint of her breasts now and again, and Charlaine was far from the only person aware of that.
