by Zoë Archer
“Or,” he continued, “you can finally cut al-Rahim’s balls off and take your position as the rightful leader of this territory. The only leader of this territory.”
Interest gleamed in Khalida’s eyes, but she seemed to deliberately bank it. “Lovely idea—but in the desert, wadis are sometimes high with water, other times dry as bones. My own supply of water is ebbing away, and all because of an astrolabe. If I wanted to drown al-Rahim, I wouldn’t be able to do so. Not now.”
Mikhail’s grin flashed. “But now you’ve got a Man O’ War as an ally.”
Slowly, Khalida lowered her dagger. She narrowed her eyes. “You?” Her voice dripped with skepticism. “So generous with your worthless declarations.”
“We wouldn’t have come here if we didn’t mean it,” Daphne said. When Khalida turned her piercing dark gaze on her, she continued, speaking quickly. “What did we gain by bringing ourselves to you? None of us are stupid, Khalida, especially not you. Captain Denisov spoke the truth. Consider it: had we wanted to, we could be on the other side of the globe by now. But we chose to come here, to you.”
She glanced at Mikhail, who gave her a subtle nod of encouragement.
“The people need a leader, Khalida,” she went on. “They need someone who will act swiftly, with a show of force the likes of which has never been seen in these lands. Join forces with us, and we’ll take back the astrolabe and decimate al-Rahim.”
Khalida frowned in contemplation, which Daphne decided to take as an encouraging sign. “Al-Rahim has two men of metal, whereas there is only this one.” She nodded toward Mikhail.
“I know the Man O’ Wars’ weaknesses,” he said. “And they haven’t my skills in combat.”
“One sage is far more valuable than two fools,” added Daphne.
Khalida gave a soft snort. “You speak well, for a ferengi.”
“She’s damned intelligent,” Mikhail said. “Between her brainpower and my strength, you’re not going to find better allies.”
Pleasure throbbed in Daphne’s chest, hearing Mikhail’s praise. Perhaps it was only meant to convince Khalida, yet it gratified Daphne just the same. She’d once feared his scorn because it meant that the mission to free her parents would be jeopardized. Now, his contempt wounded her deeply. His respect meant something to her.
Hassan ran back into the tent, carrying a large and wicked scimitar. Bowing, he presented it to Khalida. “As you requested, lalla.”
“Today is a day of disappointments for you, Hassan.” Khalida turned away and strode back to her divan. After tucking her dagger back into her sash, she stretched out on her couch. “I’ve decided to keep these two alive for a little longer.”
Indeed, Hassan stifled his look of regret as he held on to the scimitar.
Khalida drew on her hookah again, then exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke. “If we were to ally, there can be no room for hesitation, no ill-conceived plans for battle. And we must succeed. We have to strike against him once, and once only.”
“Cut the head off the snake,” Daphne said, which made the warlord nod with understanding.
“Only a fool takes to the sea without being able to read the stars,” said Mikhail. “No one knows the sky better than me. And for this voyage,” he added with a grin, “I’ve already plotted our course.”
Khalida’s laugh was low and throaty. “Are all men of metal as cocksure as you?”
“There’s no one like him,” Daphne said before he could speak.
He didn’t look at her, but she saw the flex of muscle in his jaw.
“Let’s hear these schemes of yours,” the warlord said.
“Free her first,” he answered, jerking his head toward Daphne.
Khalida held herself still for a moment, and Daphne wondered if Mikhail’s commanding tone had pushed the warlord too far.
Then, at last, Khalida nodded. One of the guards stepped forward and undid the manacles around Daphne’s wrists. It was difficult to resist a groan of relief when the fetters came off, and she rubbed her arms to soothe their ache.
“Don’t you want to be freed?” Khalida asked Mikhail.
In answer, Mikhail simply flexed his arms. The manacles snapped off his wrists and fell to the carpeted floor. Mutters of shock circulated through the tent, and Khalida’s entourage of handsome men shifted uncomfortably, surreptitiously testing their biceps.
Khalida took another contemplative pull of her hookah as she stared at him. “Yes, I can see why you might be useful.”
“You won’t regret joining forces with him,” Daphne said to Khalida. She turned to Mikhail, her gaze meeting his. Nothing else existed in that moment, the warlord’s tent fading away, the desert itself disappearing. It was only her and Mikhail. Together. And she let him see this, for she might not ever have another chance to do so. “I never have.”
Chapter Twelve
* * *
ONCE THE MANACLES came off, they were treated to Khalida’s hospitality. Allies now—though warily so—and the warlord seemed determined to show her generosity. Tea and roasts and bread and pilafs studded with dried fruit and cakes perfumed with rosewater.
Mikhail could be a good guest. He devoured everything, his hunger monstrous. It was a surprise that he hadn’t much felt it until this morning, since it was with him always. But Daphne had kept him distracted from the needs of his body. Certain needs. Others had demanded satisfaction.
And they still did. He and Daphne sat upon cushions on the floor, eating, discussing plans for tomorrow’s assault. He paid no attention to the women who would bring him more food, more tea, more curious and flirtatious glances. It was the professorsha, and only her, that drew his attention. He was always aware of Daphne, of the movement of her fingers to her mouth, the soft glow of silk-filtered light upon her skin.
Again, they’d worked well together, navigating the treacherous waters of Khalida to now find themselves her—somewhat—honored guests. Each anticipating the other’s intent, taking the thread of persuasion and spinning it out, until the warlord had agreed to become their confederate. They made a damned fine team, he and Daphne, as colleagues. As lovers.
Like she’d said, it’s a black joke. Nothing’s simple. Everything has its twists, its dangers.
But he’d other concerns right now. Namely, the plotting and strategy for tomorrow’s all-or-nothing battle.
The whole of the day they talked, making plans, deciding tactics. Khalida’s generals joined in the discussion. Lamps were lit as darkness fell. More food and drink was brought, consumed mainly by him.
After hours and hours, they’d reached a final plan. Daphne looked exhausted but resolute. She hadn’t been silent during the discussion, offering her own good suggestions, many of which they planned on using. But they had all reached the limits of planning. There came a time when words had to give way to action. Tomorrow would be that time.
He needed to get back to his ship before Levkov decided to send out a search party. Generous as Khalida had been, she wouldn’t take kindly to her encampment being invaded by a party of mercenaries.
And Daphne did look ready to collapse from fatigue.
“Gather your warriors,” Mikhail said to Khalida. “I’ll give them transport to al-Rahim’s compound.”
The warlord only smiled. “A kindly offer, but unnecessary. We have our own means of flight.”
“The gyrocopters,” said Daphne.
“We call them zawbaahs.”
“Whirlwinds.”
Mikhail got to his feet, and Khalida and her generals immediately did the same, eyeing his great height when standing. Typical reaction. But no one was ever taller than Mikhail—except other Man O’ Wars.
Another fire burned through his heart. Tomorrow, he’d face Olevski. Only one of them would survive the encounter.
“At the day’s first light,” Khalida said, “we will meet just beyond the ridge shielding al-Rahim’s compound. But I warn you, if you fail to show—”
“We’ll be there,�
� Daphne said, rising to her feet.
From her sash, Khalida pulled her dagger. “More than words are needed to seal this alliance.” She drew the blade across her palm. A line of blood welled, and the warlord offered her dagger to Daphne.
Without hesitation, she took the knife. Scored it over her hand, barely making a sound as she did so. Mikhail gritted his teeth as bright blood appeared.
Daphne held her cut hand out to Khalida, who clasped it against her own. The two women also locked gazes, making silent promises to each other. Satisfied with Daphne’s demonstration of loyalty, Khalida turned to Mikhail.
“I’ll need that scimitar,” he said, glancing at the sharp blade that Hassan had produced earlier in the hopes of cutting his head off.
Hassan looked reluctant to give the deadly weapon to him, but Khalida nodded her approval. When the sword was given to Mikhail, he swiped it across his palm. The blade had indeed been honed to incredible sharpness, for it cut him right away. As soon as a line of blood appeared on his hand, he clasped palms with Khalida. The blood oath was sealed.
Everyone turned to leave, but Daphne stayed where she was. Instead, she held out her hand to Mikhail.
Though she tried to keep her gaze stoic, a yearning hope shone beneath the surface.
He stared at her hand for a moment, the cut that marred her skin, and the smeared crimson. Part of him wanted to turn away, ignore her offer of trust. Yet part of him demanded he take her hand and pull her to him, wrap her in his arms, forgive her anything.
Instead, he simply clasped their hands together. But he couldn’t ignore the feel of her skin against his, couldn’t pretend that his blood and hers didn’t mix. Though he kept himself perfectly still, reverberations traveled through him, like a silent chant.
Doesn’t mean anything, he told himself. Blood is cheap, easily spilled.
Not her blood. Not theirs together.
At last, they released each other. Khalida glanced back and forth between them, speculation sharp in her gaze, but she said nothing. Mikhail fought the urge to demand a bandage for Daphne’s hand. She took care of it herself, removing a handkerchief from her satchel and wrapping it around her palm.
Mikhail said, “Dawn tomorrow.” Then, after making sure Daphne would follow, he turned and left the tent. It was a measure of trust that only a few guards, including Hassan, accompanied them back to the jolly boat. Mikhail and Daphne climbed in.
After they had both fastened their harnesses, he brought them back up into the sky. From above, the encampment at night shone with cooking fires. Lamp and torchlight flickering against fabric and metal. Beyond the limits of the encampment was the broad desert, dark as the bottom of the sea. But the stars above glimmered, and that damned waning crescent moon hung overhead, reminding him of what he and Daphne had shared. It had been only last night, but lifetimes had been lived in the intervening hours.
They reached the Bielyi Voron quickly, and a council of war was called. All the senior members of the crew assembled in Mikhail’s quarters, Daphne also in attendance, and the plans for tomorrow’s battle were gone over.
“The jewels are already in our strong room, Captain,” said Levkov. “No need for us to risk our necks.”
“Fortunate we’re not still in the navy, Piotr Romanovich,” Mikhail growled. “Or else you’d get ten lashes for insubordination.”
The first mate’s mouth formed an obstinate line.
“Why are you going to fight?” Daphne asked quietly.
All eyes turned to her, then back to Mikhail.
“Two reasons,” he said after a long pause. “First: Olevski’s going to be there.”
Several crewmen swore, knowing Mikhail’s history with the bastard.
“Reason enough,” said Levkov.
“What’s the other?” asked Herrera.
Mikhail took a slow, deep breath. He tried not to look at Daphne, but his gaze clung to her despite his wishes. “I gave my word.”
What was the word of a scoundrel worth? Only as much as he valued it himself. No one on this ship, including Daphne, would be at all surprised if he decided to fly the Bielyi Voron to some distant tropic shore, and leave kidnapped archaeologists and feuding warlords to sort their problems out on their own.
But he couldn’t. He had to see this through.
“We’ll be rendezvousing with Khalida and her warriors at dawn,” he went on. “So if you aren’t on watch tonight, get the hell to your bunks and get some rest.”
The crew filed out, mumbling their good-nights. Akua was the last man to leave. He cast a glance back into Mikhail’s stateroom, then shut the door firmly behind him.
Mikhail and Daphne were alone. The last time they’d been in his cabin, their kiss had set fire to the night. Since then, they’d made love with a passion that redrew every atlas. He knew her taste, her feel. Her wickedly clever mind. And her deceit.
She stood in front of the bank of windows, the night sky jeweled black velvet as it spread out behind her.
Hell, he thought, shaking his head at himself, there I go, turning poetical again. Should change my name to Pushkin.
He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Go to bed.”
“And lie there sleepless, thinking of all the things I want to say to you?”
“Never cared for words. They’re just sounds. Sounds that make everything damned complicated and messy.” A shot of vodka sounded, however, like the most basic and essential thing in the world. He pulled the bottle from its chiller. Deciding to spare himself the pretense, he drank straight from the bottle. Cold slid down his throat, leaving a pleasant warmth in its wake.
“There’s a reason I didn’t become a professor of English,” she said quietly. “It’s much easier to simply watch how cultures and societies interacted. Actions hold more weight than words. And yet,” she moved away from the windows, separating out from the night’s shadows, “I can’t think of the right thing to do to make you understand.”
“Nothing to understand,” he said, gruff. “You had an objective: free your parents. You did whatever it took to achieve that objective. Including lie to me. Twice.” He hated the bitterness in his voice. Him—who couldn’t be touched by anything. But that raw and bleeding part of him continued to throb.
“I confessed my second deception. That should count for something.”
It did. It didn’t. He gave her a noncommittal shrug, then took another drink.
She stepped in front of him, refusing to be shunted aside. “My parents were going to be killed if I didn’t do something. Lying to you—I had no choice.”
He snorted, and she glowered at him, continuing, “I didn’t. And if put in the same situation again, I wouldn’t change my actions. You said it yourself. My one goal was to get my parents out of al-Rahim’s clutches. So I did what circumstance forced me to do.” She made a strange, choking laugh. “Do you know what my biggest lie was before this? I told a colleague that I’d read and enjoyed her monograph about the agricultural economy of fourteenth-century Hamburg.”
He couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. Seems even the professorsha had her academic limits.
She looked encouraged by his laugh, stepping closer. “What you and I had—in the vault, when we made love—none of that was a lie. I can’t counterfeit how I feel.” She seemed to struggle with her words, as though she reached for them but they fought back. “I know how to make bars of clay look like gold, or jewels resemble worthless stones, but … I can’t dissemble when it comes to my heart.”
The safer thing would be to turn away from her, or even remove her from his quarters, so he wouldn’t have to hear her, see her. Yet he stayed where he was, his gaze moving over her as if by sight alone he could know her every secret, and whether she spoke the truth or not.
Give him a map, any map, and he could read it. It’d always been that way with him. Learning terrain. Having an innate sense as to the how and why of a place, even before clapping eyes upon it. And when seeing the place in truth, no longer
printed on a map, he had an ingrained sense of it, its topography already imprinted upon him.
A face was a map, too. He read hers now, his throat tight, surprising himself with how much he truly wanted to believe her.
In the curve of her lips, in the green and gold of her eyes, and the depths revealed there, he discovered the landscape of her inner self. And found … no deceit. Every word she spoke rang true, the certainty of it like the gleam of the approaching horizon promising the end of a long, rocky voyage.
He hungered for that shore, and he feared it. He could find safety, or he could founder and crash.
After another burning cold drink of vodka, he said, “Deceiving a mercenary, twice, is a hell of an accomplishment. Admirable, even.”
This hadn’t been what she’d expected, and she frowned slightly at his reply. “Not many would think so.”
“Depends who you ask. People in my world—if they gave out medals, they’d give one to you. Esteemed Achievement in Manipulation and Deception. In fact, I’d be the one to pin it on you.”
Hurt crossed her face. “Don’t repay my honesty now with ridicule.”
“All the things I am—rogue, mercenary, bastard—a liar isn’t one of them.” Instead of reaching for her, he ran his free hand over the crest of his hair, feeling its spikes against his palm. “Do I trust you? Not fully. Not yet.”
She turned away, disappointed.
“But I respect the hell out of you,” he said. “Not too many earn my respect, but you did. Because I never saw your deviousness coming. No hint. No clue. As wily as a mercenary.”
“Must admit,” she said, rueful, “I surprised myself.” A frown pleated her brows. “I don’t know if I should be proud of that. Or how to interpret it.”
“It means that you’ve got the sharpest brain of anyone I know.” He’d seen her intelligence in action. Not simply with her deception, but throughout their whole voyage together, he’d witnessed the intricate machinery of her mind. “But you’ve also got a heart, so you won’t make a good mercenary. Not like me.”
