by Gregory Ashe
Chapter Seventeen
Joaquim crouched in the darkness, behind a wall of scrub, watching the ship unload at the small cove. He could feel Viane close to him, the heat from her body radiating toward him in the evening air. The other members of Sipir’s gang were hidden along the length of the beach. Five others, making seven total. Joaquim counted at least twenty men on the ship, illuminated by lanterns, and a good dozen more on the shore. Four with crossbows guarded the strand of beach where the rowboats were unloading the smugglers’ cargo. So many men carried torches that Joaquim wondered, for a moment, if the smugglers had any concept of discretion.
A light breeze off the water made Viane shiver, the movement barely noticeable in the darkness. Joaquim reached out and rested one arm across her back, shifting his weight to lean closer to her. Viane gave a single, severe shake of her head and glared at him. Joaquim withdrew his arm, flushing in the darkness.
Bloody woman, he thought. I’m doing the best I can. It was true; in the three days he had been Sipir’s guest, Joaquim had done his best to be a gentleman to Viane. His brush with death—at her hands, nonetheless—and the realization of how utterly he had failed at defending himself and his friend had left Joaquim’s sense of self shattered. Gone were the illusions of desirability, strength, skill. The smugglers had handled him as though he were a misbehaving child.
So, feeling utterly worthless, he clung to his new goal: earning Viane’s love. It was a goal with one very clear objective, something that Joaquim thought might make up for his previous failures. Part of him realized the desperate need for validation that the sudden upheaval in his life had brought, but he ignored that part, and most of the time Joaquim felt utterly convinced that, if he could just do the right thing, Viane would love him.
Apparently this kind of gesture is not appreciated, though, he thought. Although it might be the fact that those men would like to punch a few holes in us with crossbow bolts. The thought did not exactly fill him with romantic yearning, either, but at least he was trying.
Juiot and Nenis, a pair of burly, bearded Canian brothers, were supposed to take out two of the crossbow men first, and then Viane and Joaquim, along with Grits, Salo, and Tip, were going to rush in and try to catch the other men by surprise. It sounded like a terrible plan to Joaquim. As part of his policy of appeasement, he had not complained, although Viane had given him a hard look at his first, disbelieving cough.
Well, it’s not my bloody fault if Grits’s plan is going to get us all killed, he thought. They should have gotten crossbows for all of us, or at least waited until we could take them on the trail up the hills, where we would have been able to push a few rocks down on them. Still, being right all the time had not served him well so far, not with Viane or with the other smugglers, so he was willing to try another tack for the time.
Arrows struck two of the crossbowmen, both from the same direction. A cry went up, and the smugglers raced off toward that edge of the beach as the two remaining crossbowmen sent quarrels into the darkness. They’ll bloody hit their own men, Joaquim thought. Not that I have any objection.
No other sign was given, but Viane broke through the thick brush and raced across the sand. Joaquim sprinted after her, trying to keep his footing as he ran. He carried his sword and dueling dagger; a few days of sparring with Salo and Tip had opened his eyes to new—and dirtier—ways of fighting, but he still felt more comfortable with rapier and dagger.
Viane sprinted behind one of the crossbowman, one of her long knives opening his throat as she continued forward. His knees buckled, and he fired a bolt out into the darkness, where it was answered by a shout of pain. Viane kept running toward the next crossbowman. He turned to meet her, crossbow coming up toward her chest. She hit the ground, rolling forward, as the bolt shot right over her head. It struck the sand a few inches from Joaquim’s boot. He kept running.
As she came up onto her knees, Viane drove both blades up into the crossbowman’s chest. She pulled them loose, pushed them man back with the hilts, and sheathed her knives. With one quick movement, she bent and swept up the dying man’s crossbow, still loaded, and trained it on the back of one of the men still running toward where Juiot and Nenis hid. A loud twang announced the bolt, followed by a scream. The man went down, tripping up two men behind him, and sending the rush into the mass of confused bodies.
Joaquim saw all of this, but he had no time to think about it. Three men climbed out of a rowboat loaded with crates, drawing long knives as they jumped into the surf, and moved toward Viane and the dying crossbowman. Viane, oblivious to the new arrivals, was loading another bolt into the crossbow, attention divided between the weapon and some of the smugglers who were turning back to face her. Juiot and Nenis were forgotten in the darkness. Twin clacks sounded in the darkness, and two bolts hit the wet sand around Viane’s feet. The sailor’s on the Bel-taken ship.
With a shout, half terror, half adrenaline, Joaquim crashed into the first of the smugglers from the rowboat. His knife found the man’s side, and Joaquim thrust twice. The man stumbled and fell back into the waves. Joaquim staggered and spun, dagger and rapier ready, to face the other two. One of the smugglers, his left eye missing, nodded to the other, and they separated, circling Joaquim.
Setting his back to the waves, Joaquim waited until the second sailor had moved almost out of reach, and then he dove toward the one-eyed man, dagger thrusting. Even as he thrust with the dagger, he brought the rapier whipping around in a wide circle. The familiar tug as flesh met the blade. The narrow rapier was not intended for slashing, but it would at least do something. The one-eyed man twisted, avoiding the dagger, and his own long knife flashed out.
Without slowing, Joaquim let the force of this swing carry him around, so that the knife slid past his side. He could feel the air from its passage even as he continued to turn. He caught a quick glimpse of the second smuggler, blood running out from under one hand pressed over his face. Joaquim had the two men in front of him again, and he did not wait for them to separate. He thrust with the rapier. Where in Bel’s bloody kingdom are Grits and the rest? The one-eyed man knocked aside the blade, but Joaquim’s dagger found his heart a moment later. The one-eyed man died screaming, blood mixing with the sea foam along the shore.
The second man, one hand still pressed to his cheek, turned to run. Joaquim’s rapier slid into his back, and the man stumbled. He ran a few dozen more paces before he hit the ground, blood turning the sand black in the torchlight. Joaquim turned, examining the beach.
Two more men lay dead with bolts sticking out of them, and Viane, with only her two knives, was trying to fend off a long-armed smuggler wielding a cutlass. A bolt from the ship clipped the back of her leg. Viane staggered, knives dropping. The smuggler grinned and swung, the curved blade whistling through the air.
Joaquim whipped his dagger forward. The throw was a poor one, but the hilt struck the man in the nose. The crack of bone sounded, and blood misted the night air. The smuggler pitched back, both arms flying up. Viane crouched, one hand pressed over her calf. Joaquim darted forward and skewered the sailor, rapier sliding between ribs to find the heart. The man let out one short scream.
The beach was quiet, for now. The other smugglers had disappeared into the darkness, still searching for Juiot and Nenis. He did not see anyone on the deck of the ship either, although it was difficult to tell in the darkness. Gathering his dagger from the sand, Joaquim turned to Viane. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Bleeding fine,” she said, but tears stood in her eyes. Her wide mouth was pressed tight, though.
“Let me see it,” he said. “Sit down.”
“Are you mad?” she asked. “That bolt came from the ship; we’re both going to get a few holes in us if we don’t get out of here fast. Help me up.”
“There’s no one on the deck,” Joaquim said. “Well, at least that I can see. Let me look at your leg.”
“No one you can see,” Viane said with a sneer. “That’s the whole point, you idi
ot. Come on, let’s get back to the trees.”
He took her arm and helped her to her feet, pretending he did not hear the whimper she let out when she first set weight on her injured leg. Then, sliding one arm under her breasts, he draped her arm across his shoulders.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, prying his hands from her side.
“Helping you walk,” Joaquim said. Bloody Bel, I’m trying to be a better man, but I’m not the Day Sister herself. You’d think I tried to rip her shirt off.
“Love birds,” Grits voice called down to them from the ship. “What do you think you’re doing? Now’s not the time to be playing nip and tickle.”
Viane stiffened and seemed about to push Joaquim away from her, but then her arm slid down from his shoulder, wrapping around his waist, and pulled him tight. “What in Bel’s name are you doing up there, Grits?” she shouted. “That was not part of the plan.”
“The plan was boring, love-bird,” he shouted back. “And it looks like you didn’t need us anyway; your turtle-dove was able to keep you alive, although I fancy he’s was more motivated than the rest of us to keep you safe. Now unload that rowboat and come back to the ship; we’ve got a lot of stuff to unload tonight.” Grits disappeared from the rail.
“What are you doing?” Joaquim asked, tapping her hand lightly and looking her in the eye. “Putting on a show for Grits?”
“Don’t get any ideas,” she said. “It keeps people on their toes, wondering who I fancy. For a while they all thought it was Sipir, and that worked out well enough, but I don’t want them getting settled. You’re up next.”
“And I’m supposed to just play along?” Joaquim asked. He removed her arm and knelt to examine her leg. The wound did not look bad—the bolt had grazed the calf, so it was superficial. He ripped a strip of cloth from the dead smuggler’s shirt and tied it around her leg. “That will do for now.”
“Well,” Viane said, looking down at him as he knelt there. She rested one hand on his cheek and traced the line of his jaw with her thumb. “It doesn’t all have to be for show. Now help me unload this rowboat.”
Joaquim shook his head and helped her into the surf. They began unloading the surprisingly light boxes. His thoughts raced as they worked. Her touch at the end had been anything but playful, but he wondered if this was, as she had all but admitted, simply a ploy to keep the other men guessing. The more he learned about Viane, the more he realized he knew nothing about her. The girl he had known had been at once independent and fiercely desperate to please. This new Viane had traces of both, but seemed more in control of herself, more calculating. He was not certain, now, that she had not been manipulating him all along. And the Night Sister take me if she’s not a cold-hearted killer as well. Why do I still love her, then?
As he lifted another of the large boxes, he looked over at her. “Why are you doing this, Viane?” he asked in a low voice. “Bel take me, if it’s the money, you know that your father will give you whatever you want. Or is this some kind of independence thing, like the Jaecan women? You want to be treated like a man, or something like that? Break all the rules—Bel knows you’ve broken enough of them already.”
She glanced at him once, then continued moving the boxes. “Did you ever think it’s really none of your business, Joaquim? No one asked you to get involved. I brought you into this because I care about your family.”
“And about me?” She did not answer. “Bel burn me, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Viane. We were practically promised, you know that, even if you won’t admit it; it was your father’s bloody idea, after all, so you can’t even say that’s my fault.”
“You want to know why I’m doing this?” she asked. Her voice was casual, even friendly, at odd with the force of her words. “I’ll tell you, even though it’s not one bit your affair, and the Night Sister take you, Joaquim, for pushing and prying. I’m doing this because I hate my bloody father, and I hate my mother, and I hate this city, and the sooner I see the last of it, the better, so you can bloody well take that back, and tell your father, and tell my father, and live out the rest of your life in peace. Sipir will let you go, if you want. If you tell anyone where I am, or about Sipir, well, he’ll be able to produce enough witnesses that you and your father lose everything for smuggling. So, there you have it.” She dropped another box onto the stack on shore, and he heard the crack of glass within. “All the answers you could want. Run on home, now.”
He kept moving the boxes, ignoring her impatient glare.
“Go,” she said. “Get out of here.”
He lifted another box. Viane walked over and brought her hand up to slap him. Joaquim gripped her wrist and pulled her in close, so that he whispered into her ear. “That’s fine,” he said. “Hate this city, hate your father, what do I care? But I love you, Viane, Bel take me for a fool. So, quit trying to push me away. Running away didn’t help; I followed you this far, didn’t I? Acting like a spoiled child won’t drive me off either. We’re in this together, now.”
Even as he spoke the words, though, Joaquim wondered if they were true; how could he love her, if she really did hate him? If he did not know her? What did it mean to love? He did not know, but he knew there was something different about Viane, and so he gripped onto the expression of love as the closest thing to it.
He released her wrist and stepped around her to set the box on the shore. After a moment, Viane returned to the other side of the rowboat and continued unloading. They emptied the boat without another word between them.
Between their rowboat, the second one belonging to the smugglers, and the small boat that Salo, Grits, and Tip had used to reach the ship, they unloaded the cargo relatively quickly. On their third trip back, Joaquim shimmied up the rope ladder and found the deck empty. “What next?” he asked Grits.
The raspy-voiced man answered, “Nothing left but to burn her to the water. It’s a bleeding shame, really. She’s a fine ship. Wouldn’t mind having her for my own.”
“Why don’t you?” Joaquim asked. “Sipir probably wouldn’t mind some help bringing stuff in for him, and the burned-out hull would just ruin this stretch of coast for everyone else. Why waste a good ship?”
“That’s the whole point, boy,” Grits said. He sounded angry, but then, that’s how his voice always sounded. “Once we sink the ship, nobody else can use this cove, not without sitting halfway out where everyone can see them, and you can bet that the watch would be down here pretty fast if they got wind of that. As for running stuff for Sipir, well, I wouldn’t think about suggesting that until a good twenty years have gone by.”
“Why’s that?” Joaquim asked. “It’s business; that’s the way the merchants do it, if they can—contract someone else to take the risks. Makes sense.”
Grits spat over the rail. “Sipir doesn’t like people getting their own ideas about things; that’s how all this started down on the docks, when a couple of Seaweed’s crew got greedy and started trying to run their own crews. Things got real messy, Seaweed ended up with her pretty throat slit, and Sipir hunted down them boys that did it to her. Least, he tried to hunt them down, I’m not sure Tides isn’t one of them.”
“I thought Sipir was the one that slit her throat,” Joaquim said.
“You want to be the one that says that to him? Feel free, next time you see him. That girl will probably slit your throat for him, if what I’ve seen from her is any indication. That one knows where to cast her nets. You’re a bleeding idiot if you think anything else. Now get off my ship.”
Joaquim flushed and climbed down the ladder to the small boat, where Viane still waited. In his haste, he missed the last rung and fell into the boat, almost tipping it over as his weight hit the side. He swung his arms back, trying to compensate, and then somehow he fell on top of Viane. The force of his fall pushed the boat out into the dark waters, away from the ship and the torchlight on the beach.
He could feel Viane’s body, warm under him, her breathing so
ft against his ear. She held herself stiff, uncomfortable. Then she relaxed, one hand coming up to ruffle the hair on the back of his head. With one quick movement she pulled Joaquim down and kissed him. She tasted like salt and sweat and blood. Before he realized it, Joaquim’s hands were moving. Part of his mind screamed at him that, at best, Viane would smack him around, and at worst, she might very well slit his throat. He could not stop himself, though, pulling up her tight black shirt, continuing to kiss her.
Laughter from the ship called him back to himself. He froze.
“What’s wrong?” Viane asked.
“I wonder if they can see us,” Joaquim said.
Viane pulled him down and kissed him again.
