Beggar's Flip

by Benny Lawrence

  “You think Darren isn’t in danger?” I asked, slow and unbelieving. “They’re starving Darren. Did you miss that minor detail?”

  “But they won’t kill her. You said it yourself, she’s too valuable. Ariadne? She’s nothing to them. She might as well be a paper butterfly. If she talks too loud, if she makes trouble, if they want to send a message, if they get nervous, if some stupid fleshbag wants to prove his manhood—”

  “I know.”

  “They could kill her for fun. They could get screaming drunk and throw her out a window.”

  “I know.”

  “So forget the ransom! They might slit her throat as soon as they get it. We need to go in and get her.”

  “You know we can’t do that. Like you said, they’d kill Ariadne at the drop of a very small hat. What do you think happens if we send a bunch of red-sailed ships swooping down on the island?”

  Belatedly, it occurred to me to wonder whether red sails had been the best choice for Darren’s ships. They were good for making an impression. Less good if you wanted to go, well, anywhere, without being obvious about it.

  “I’m not planning to march up to the front gate blowing a trumpet,” Latoya said through her teeth. “We go in dark and quiet, the way we broke into Bero. Remember that? Remember how the captain and Regon and I invaded Bero, armed with a couple of knives and a rock in a stocking, to bust you out of a cage in Melitta’s closet?”

  On an ordinary day, the mention of Melitta’s name would have turned me to liquid. Not this time.

  “I remember Bero,” I said tightly. “Trust me, the things that happened to me on Bero were not the kind of things that one forgets. Now, do you remember how that whole rescue operation went down? Because, let’s face it, it was not Darren’s finest hour as a tactician. Remember how her plan was, literally, to jump in the ocean a few miles offshore, and then kind of hope for the best?”

  “It worked.”

  “Yes, it worked—because Ariadne came and found your sodden carcasses on the beach and found a way to get you inside the castle. If she hadn’t been there to help, then the three of you would still be staring at the outer gates and scratching yourselves, and I would still be—”

  A pulse of blind panic went through me, and I stuttered to a halt. I had to bite the inside of my mouth until I tasted wet copper before I could keep going.

  “None of us should have escaped at all,” I said. “It was the purest luck that we made it out—sheer angel farts. We can’t count on a miracle this time.”

  “So what do you want?” Latoya asked wildly. “You want a signed letter from Milo, promising that he’ll lie down and surrender as soon as we reach the keep? What’ll it take to make this rescue worth your time?”

  When I was a kid, I had to learn to eat anger. Choke it. Smother it. It wasn’t safe for me to be a real person, with a real person’s feelings. But then I met this pirate queen and began cheerfully venting all of my frustration at her. After a year or so of that, I lost the knack of strangling my feelings until they went limp and silent.

  So it took a few seconds of hard breathing before I could muster a reply.

  “You know damn well that I would burn the world down for Darren,” I said. “She may be the only reason I haven’t burned it down yet. I will walk through hell for her, but I’ll do it when I have a real chance of bringing her out the other side. Not before.”

  “So you’ll sacrifice Ariadne?” Latoya demanded. “We’re not talking about some Torasan brat now. This is your sister. Your sister, the woman who loves you more than her skin and her soul. You’re going to leave her in the meat grinder while you figure out how to give Darren her best chance?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” There was a something in her eyes that I’d never seen there before, and I didn’t know what it was but it frightened me all the same. “We’re going to go after them both. Obviously we’re going to go after them both!”

  “Once you decide. Once you give the word. And you think your sister should take her chances until you’re ready to lift a finger.”

  “Oh, shitlumps on a jam-smeared badger, are you serious?” I was sort of screaming by then. “Latoya, we don’t have a plan. If you’re so desperate to bleed for Ariadne, go ahead and slit your wrists on the aftcastle. But it won’t do shit to save her, and it won’t make her love you back!”

  I heard the crack before I saw her hand fly—and then I was running, skittering backwards, half-falling half-jumping down the stairs to the maindeck. It was only when I was down there—once I’d taken stock for a bewildered, heart-pounding second—that I realized what had happened. She’d punched the railing again. Hard enough, this time, to send a sizable chunk of it crashing down into the sea. Hard enough to slash or tear something on her injured hand, so a stream of red curled around her wrist and drip-drip-dripped on the toes of her sea-boots.

  She stared at me, panting.

  “You think I’d hit you?” she said. “Really?”

  “It’s just instinct,” I said. But I kept backing up.

  “All this time. Everything we’ve been through. And you still don’t trust me.”

  My heel hit the railing of the ship’s side. I couldn’t retreat any more.

  “You don’t trust anyone, except for Darren,” Latoya said, answering her own question. “In your broken little brain, it’s still the two of you against all the world. And no one else matters, not really, at the end of the day.”

  The crew. Where was the crew? I darted a glance sideways and—yes. There they were, a silent but fascinated audience, watching.

  Waiting?

  “You never face anything,” Latoya said. “You dodge. You duck. You go around. It’s all you know how to do. And when it’s time to stand, you’re nowhere. Even if it’s your sister’s neck in the noose.”

  I spread my arms wide. “Are we really going to stand here and argue about who loves Ariadne more?”

  “I don’t care whether you love her or not. What the hell does it matter whether you love her, if you won’t fight for her?”

  “You want proof that I’ll fight for her? For both of them? I will not let you get them killed. So back off before I take you down.”

  Had I really just said that? The part of my brain that dealt with the business of survival sent an urgent message to the part that controlled my speech, asking whether I had in fact just challenged Latoya, and if so, why the fuck.

  Someone—one of the newer recruits, I thought—tittered nervously. Latoya didn’t smile. Nowhere close. And for once, I wondered if it was a good thing that she knew better than to underestimate me. Her right hand bunched into a fist, and relaxed again.

  “Latoya, Lynn,” Corto said, his voice wavering and uncertain. “If this goes on, the men are going to end up mighty confused.”

  “No one’s getting confused.” Latoya’s eyes didn’t move from me. “Lynn’s had a hard night. She’s going to go to her cabin and lie down for a while. Right?”

  “Oh, yeah. That sounds nifty.” My garrotte, as always, was tied loosely around my wrist. I dug a forefinger under the cord, ready to pull it free. “If I do that, is the cabin door going to stay open behind me? Or is it somehow mysteriously going to end up locked and barred?”

  “No one’s going to lock you up.” Latoya started down the steps to the maindeck, each step a heavy tread that I could feel as a tremor in the deck-planks. “Not if you stay out of my way.”

  “Well, here’s the problem: I’m not very good at staying where I’m put. And one more problem: I can’t let you get in my way, either.”

  Silence hung in the cold, still air. Somebody coughed. Everyone was listening.

  “You really want to do this?” Latoya asked, with utter calm. “Go toe to toe with me?”

  She hadn’t reached for a weapon, but it wasn’t as if she needed one to knock me flat. Mentally, I measured the distance between me and Corto. He wasn’t far, I could maybe make it behind the protection of his sword arm before Lat
oya could grab me, but then, would he be willing to draw steel on Latoya? Bloody hell, would I?

  “You know I don’t want to do this,” I said.

  “So don’t.” She adjusted her stance, shifting weight to her back foot. “Stand down. Let me handle this. Don’t force the situation. Don’t make the crew take sides. Because if it comes to that, Lynn, if you start a civil war—who the hell do you think is going to win it?”

  I pictured what the crewmen of the Banshee were seeing that second, as Latoya and I squared off. On one side, a seven-foot musclewoman and master marlinspike sailor, with fists like chunks of granite and a mind like steel wire; on the other side, a short, skinny, barefoot girl, armed with a glorified piece of string. It should have been obvious which way the crew would swing, except . . . except . . .

  “You forget,” I said. I tapped my shoulder, the one with the storm-petrel tattoo—the same mark that was emblazoned on Darren’s flag, and Darren’s seal, and Darren’s best surcoat, and Darren’s secret brandy flask, the one I had stolen from her and thrown over the side of the ship just the day before. Everything she owned.

  “I belong to the pirate queen,” I said. “I don’t speak for myself. Her will is my will and her voice is my voice and anyone loyal to her will follow my orders!”

  I was almost screaming when I finished, and my head swam with vertigo and my eyeballs ached as though my head was coming apart. Which was only right, because the world was coming apart. Because this was going to happen, me against Latoya, and it couldn’t happen but it had to happen and if it happened, I had to win.

  Latoya’s mouth twitched. “You really think that’ll work?”

  It had damn well better work, considering how long this had been my emergency plan, and how much effort I’d put into it. I didn’t say that part out loud.

  “All right,” Latoya said quietly, and again, “all right. Corto, Sal. Take her and tie her up. Put her down in the hold. We can drop her off with Jess as soon as—”

  “All hands,” I roared. When you’re smaller, you have to be louder. “All hands, in wing formation, prepare to advance on my mark.”

  “—And I guess you’d better gag her,” Latoya finished. “This is fucking stupid, Lynn.”

  “This is doing what it takes.” I tugged the garrotte loose from my wrist and ran its slippery length through my fingers. “And I do what it takes, whatever it takes. Always have.”

  “We have that in common.” She blew out a long, resigned breath. “All right. Corto, make sure to pin her legs. You know how she likes to go for the heel stomp.”

  “Mark!” I yelled. “All hands, forward!”

  There was the familiar ripple along Latoya’s neck and shoulders as her muscles tightened, preparing for a lunge. She was tired—that was something—and her hands were torn up too badly for her to hold a weapon with any ease. So she was, maybe, only eighty percent as dangerous as usual. So attacking her wouldn’t be pure suicide. Still pretty close.

  I wanted desperately to see what the sailors behind me were doing, but there was no point in turning to look. The talking was over, and I couldn’t fight or fuck or trick my way out of this, not this time. It all came down to whether the crew would rally to me. It was up to them, now, and as Latoya began her forward charge, as the power of her footfalls made the decks thunder, I could only wait to see what they would do.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Darren of the House of Torasan (Prisoner)

  I WAS CONSCIOUS when they threw me in the cell—just—but it was some time before I was alert enough to get up and explore the space with outstretched hands.

  It was just a cell. A stone box, about six feet by six feet. It was windowless; a faint line of torchlight trickled in beneath the barred door, but not enough to see by. A bucket in one corner oozed a foul smell into the room.

  The bucket was heavy iron. I thought maybe I could use it to smash the skull of the first person to come through the door, until my groping hands felt the chain that secured it to a ring-bolt in the wall. The bastards were one step ahead of me.

  There was a pile of straw in another corner. Bedding. A soft scritch-scratching noise from the pile told me that it was crawling with fleas. I fumbled my way into another corner and sat on the bare stone.

  That was it. That was all I could do. And that’s when I began to lose it.

  If you’re lucky, you get one person in your life like Regon, a person who never blames you for anything and so never needs an apology, a person who knows you so well that you can never surprise or disappoint him. If you do have a friend like that, then try not to let him get murdered, because if you lose him, I promise you this: You will never get another.

  Even on that first day, I felt the loss like a missing limb. Raw with grief and fury, I pounded the floor until my fists were chunks of bleeding meat. Why had I brought him with me on a suicide mission, why had he decided to follow me in the first place, why hadn’t I done something to save him . . . ?

  All right, announced a calm voice from the back of my head. That’s quite enough of that.

  It sounded like Lynn. So much so that I could picture her sitting there in the darkness beside me, with that look of grave, slightly sad concentration.

  What would Lynn say if she was there? Well, that was obvious: she’d say, “Take a nap.”

  And I’d answer: “Those sons of bitches murdered Regon, and you expect me to sleep?”

  And she would say: “You’re in a box. You can’t do anything useful right now. Take a nap. Save your energy for when it matters.”

  Save my energy—yes. They weren’t planning to feed me. I was hungry already. I would be hungrier soon. I had to slow the starvation process as much as I could, and that meant doing my best impression of a vegetable.

  I wedged myself in the corner, did some deep breathing, and closed my eyes.

  That was my first nap as Milo’s captive. Between the grief, the shock, the rage, and the hunger, it was not a very relaxing one.

  LATER—HOW MUCH later, it was impossible to say—a sort of cat-flap at the bottom of the door rattled, and an unseen hand shoved a bowl inside.

  I lurched my way over to it and inspected it by touch. My fingertips found cool water. I drank off the entire bowl before I realized what I was doing, and cursed my own stupidity. Had that been a day’s supply of water? A week’s supply?

  Well, there was nothing I could do about it now. I retreated back into my corner, and dozed fitfully until I had to get up to use the bucket. I had been avoiding this, but I couldn’t put it off forever. The stink in the cell became twice as bad. I pulled my shirt up over my nose before I went to sleep again.

  HUNGER STARTS AS pain: stabbing pain, cramping pain. A scraping sensation, as though your stomach is a gourd and the soft inside is being scooped out spoonful by spoonful. As time goes on, the pain gives way to dizziness and nausea. Your gastric juices bubble up and sear your throat. Your heart begins to pound so hard that your brain seems to bounce inside your skull.

  How long had I been in the starvation cell? They had delivered water three times—that was all I knew.

  “You have to think about something other than food,” my imaginary Lynn said to me. She was wearing the sheer white tunic and the copper bangles that she usually only put on for special occasions. My birthday, for example. And the day before my birthday, because, as I’ve remarked, I’m not a patient person.

  “What am I supposed to think about?” I asked. “It’s not like there are any dancing girls or flute players in here.”

  Imaginary Lynn smirked. “Trust you to be thinking about dancing girls at a time like this.”

  “I’m just saying, there’s nothing here to distract me.”

  “You could wank. That would distract you.”

  “I find it hard to communicate just exactly how much I am not in a sexy mood.”

  “Well, that we can fix. Should I strip, or do you want to fantasize about the dancing girls instead?”

  “I d
on’t remember what the dancing girls looked like. I barely even noticed them.”

  “Congratulations, Mistress. You almost managed to say that convincingly.”

  In some dim corner of my brain, I knew I was carrying on a conversation with myself. There was probably a spy just outside the door, snickering and playing with himself as he listened. I was past giving a damn.

  “Do you dance?” I asked imaginary Lynn.

  I had never asked the real Lynn this question, so I had to make up the answer.

  “Ariadne tried to teach me once,” imaginary Lynn said. “But we didn’t have music. The way I hear it, music helps.”