Except no one was whispering.
“Mister Kindly?”
She blinked, feeling about in the shadows for her friend. Realizing he’d not come with her.
“Mister Kindly?”
Mia cast aside her mantle, turned back to the alley mouth a hundred feet away. And there he sat, a ribbon of darkness at the gladiatii’s feet, tail twitching side to side as he spoke. She felt a swell of rage in her chest, raising her voice in a shout.
“Don’t you dare!”
The not-cat ignored her, and by the time she’d run back across the cobbles, the Falcons were all looking at her like she was someone new. Disappointment in their eyes. Consternation. Maybe even anger.
“Mister Kindly, shut your fucking hole!”
“… i do not have holes, fucking or otherwise…”
Mia aimed a kick at the not-cat’s head. It sailed harmlessly through the daemon, of course, but she tried to kick him again regardless. “What did you tell them?”
“What you were too ashamed to ask,” Bladesinger scowled.
“You little shit!” she cried, kicking the cat again. “I said we’d manage!”
“… and i said you cannot do this alone…”
“That wasn’t your decision to make!”
“… no, it was theirs…”
“You hateful fucking—”
“Mia,” Sidonius said gently.
“Sid, I’m sorry,” she said, looking among the Falcons. “All of you. I thought about it, but then I thought the best of it, and I never should’ve thought it at all. This isn’t your fight, and I’d no right to drag you into it. Don’t think the lesser of me, I—”
“Mia, of course I’ll help,” Sid said.
“Aye,” Bladesinger nodded. “My sword is yours.”
Bryn folded her arms and glowered. “Always.”
Tears stung Mia’s eyes, but she blinked them back, shaking her head.
“No. I don’t want your help.”
“Crow, you saved our lives,” Bladesinger said, nodding to Mister Kindly. “And if the daemon speaks true, yours is in greater peril than ours ever were. What kind of curs would we be if we left you to swing after all you did? What kind of thanks is that?”
“What about the theater?” she demanded.
Wavewaker shrugged, gave a sad smile. “It’ll be there when we return.”
“No. I’ll not have it.”
“Mia, you risked your life for us,” Sidonius said. “Everything you’d worked for danced on the edge of a knife. And still you gambled it all to see us to freedom. And now you’d stand there and tell us what we can and can’t do with it?”
“Damn right I do,” she snarled. “You owe me your lives? Go fucking live them. You want to give me thanks? Do it when you tell your grandchildren about me.”
She spun on her heel, glaring at the shadowcat.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
“… as it please you…”
She began stalking away down the street, heard Bladesinger affect a yawn.
“You know, that last glass of goldwine just went straight to my head,” she said. “Think I need to walk it off down by the harbor.”
“Aye,” Bryn said. “I could take a stroll on the boardwalk.”
“Sea air,” Sid crooned. “Think I’ll come, too. Book a cruise, maybe.”
Mia rumbled to a stop. Shoulders slumped.
“I hear Ashkah is lovely this time of year,” Wavewaker said, strolling past her.
“Never been to Ashkah,” Bryn mused, hooking her thumbs into her belt.
“Hmm,” Bladesinger pouted. “Nor I, come to mention it…”
She watched them wander down the street toward the water, the tears back to burning in her eyes. They stopped at the end of the road, turned to look at her, slumped and scowling on the cobbles.
“Coming?” Sidonius called.
She looked at the not-cat in the gutter beside her. Betrayal like a knife in her chest. He’d always been one to question, aye, push her if he thought she was being a fool. But he’d never gone against her like this before. Never acted so contrary to what he knew she wanted.
“I’ve never been sorrier to have met you than I am at this moment.”
“… a burden i will gladly bear, to keep you breathing…”
She glowered down at him, shaking her head. “If anything happens to them, I fucking swear I’ll not forgive you for it.”
The shadowcat peered at her with his not-eyes, tail twitching.
“… i am a part of you, mia. before i met you, i was a formless nothing, looking for a meaning. the shape i wear is born of you, the thing i became is because of you. and if i must do what you will not, so be it. at least you will be alive to hate me…”
She looked into the sky, the suns falling slow toward the horizon.
Another might have been afraid, then, to consider what was coming.
Turned around and run back.
But ever and always, Mia Corvere walked on.
CHAPTER 15
FINESSE
“Benino,” Mia said.
“No,” Cloud replied.
“Bertino, then. You look like a Bertino.”
“No.” Cloud frowned. “And what the ’byss does a Bertino look like, anyways?”
“Tell me the first letter,” Mia demanded. “It’s B, I’m right about that, aye?”
“No clues, Dona Mia. I told you.”
“You must give me something,” she wheedled.
“I must give you nothing,” the captain said, raising an eyebrow. “I bet my bloody ship you’d not be able to guess my name, why in Trelene’s name would I help you?”
“You’re sick of the sea and want to settle somewhere green?”
“Pig’s arse,” the privateer scoffed. “You cut these wrists, I bleed blue.”
They were three turns out of Whitekeep and sailing on swift waves. Their destination lay through the Sea of Swords on the coast of Ashkah—the town of Last Hope. From that decrepit seaport, it’d be a trek across the Whisperwastes to the Quiet Mountain. Mia had no idea how Mercurio might be faring in the keeping of the Red Church, or how she might save him from their clutches. But though she’d not admit it to many, she’d loved that man more than any since her father. And now, more than any man at all. She’d be damned if she left him to rot.
The snaggletooth coastline of Liis stretched off to the south, the white cliffs of Itreya to the north, the Maid riding low on the rolling blue. The former Falcons of Remus kept themselves mostly to the bow, reveling in the feel of the sea upon their faces.
Sidonius struck quite a sight, his bronze skin gleaming in the sunslight, hair shaved to dark fuzz, eyes of bright baby blue. The big Itreyan always kept Mia in his eyeline if he could help it—his loyalty to Darius Corvere had seen him take Mia under his wing when they were both Falcons, and hadn’t diminished one drop since. With him aboard, it felt like she had another rock to set her back against. Her little brother might be an intolerable shit. But if Mia could’ve had a big brother, she’d have chosen Sid.
Wavewaker wasn’t shy about lending a hand on deck—like most Dweymeri islanders, he’d grown up around ships and knew the ocean like his own reflection. The former thespian towered over the crew as he worked, treating Corleone’s salts to endless songs in his booming baritone. He had a voice that could make a silkling weep, and Mia still felt guilt that she’d dragged him away from his lifelong dream of owning a theater. She silently vowed to see him return to it when this was done.
Bladesinger likewise knew her way around the Maid, but she kept to the bow, looking out at the rolling blue with dark eyes. All Dweymeri were marked with facial tattoos when they came of age, but every inch of ’Singer’s mahogany skin was covered in intricate designs—a legacy of her time studying as a priestess. Mia still found it odd to think of the woman praying in a temple somewhere. ’Singer was one of the collegium’s finest warriors, a marvel on the sands. Though the forearm wound Bladesinger had
earned battling the silkling still seemed to be troubling her …
Bryn likewise seemed troubled, and Mia knew the source—the girl’s brother Byern had died on the sands but a few months back. The girl stuck close to Wavewaker, chatting and watching him work, and his presence seemed to keep the worst of her cares away. Bryn was Vaanian like Ash, hard as nails, the finest shot with a bow Mia had ever met—Mia was glad for her company. But she still feared this fool’s quest might end with Bryn and the rest of her comrades in the grave beside Byern.
Of the five Falcons, only Butcher pulled up seasick—but given he’d pissed into Mia’s porridge the first time they’d met, she felt that had a kind of justice to it. The big Liisian had never been the finest sword in the collegium, but what he lacked in skill, he made up for in heart, bluster, and stunning foulmouthedness. He kept near the port side, where his vomit had the least chance of blowing back into his face, cursing the goddesses and Wavewaker, too, who seemed most amused by his upset stomach.
All told, the former gladiatii seemed to be taking to life at sea quite well.
But elsewhere on deck, things weren’t quite as peaceful. Ashlinn and Tric circled each other like serpents waiting to strike. Though they stayed apart from each other now that Corleone had given them their own cabins, there seemed an even deeper tension between them since they’d berthed at Whitekeep. Mia still hadn’t reached a conclusion about her own feelings as far as Tric’s return was concerned, but Ashlinn was clearly a knot of suspicion and open hostility.
Mia and Mister Kindly hadn’t spoken to each other since they sailed from Whitekeep, either. He’d not ridden her shadow in turns.
Furious as she was about his betrayal, she missed him.
And so Mia stood with the Bloody Maid’s captain by the wheel, playing her new favorite game and glorying in the feel of cool wind on her face. After months in Remus Collegium or cells beneath arenas, even a breeze was a blessing. And trying to win the captain’s ship off him was better than worrying about the tempest brewing aboard it.
“There’s a storm headed for us,” Cloud Corleone declared.
“Aye,” she muttered, looking at the deck below. “I know it.”
“No, I mean there’s a genuine storm,” he said, pointing to a glowering smear of black on the eastern horizon. “We’re sailing straight into it.”
Mia squinted to where he pointed. “Is it a bad one?”
“Well, it won’t be breaking our backs by the look, but it’ll be a rough couple of turns.” The privateer flashed his four-bastard grin. “So if you want to take advantage of the bath in my cabin, Dona Mia, you’d best be about it quickly.”
“I might just do that,” she mused.
“Splendid, I’ll bring the soap.”
“Might I also suggest some splints for your broken fingers,” she said, giving him a sideways smile. “And some ice for your mangled jewels.”
Corleone grinned in return, doffed his feathered tricorn. He was as sly as a fox in a hens’ roost and crooked as a scabdog’s back leg. But despite his cheek, Mia couldn’t help but like the scoundrel. Corleone seemed to enjoy a flirt, but it was clear from his playful manner that this was simply a game for him, much as trying to guess his name was for her. The tale of his brother still hung in the air with the memory of Duomo’s murder, and looking into the pirate’s eyes, Mia suspected she’d made an ally for life.
“I’ll have the cabin boy start up the arkemical stove and run the water,” Corleone winked. “If you’ve need of someone to wash your back, just sing.”
“Go fuck yourself,” she laughed, raising the knuckles.
“Alas.” He pressed his hand to his heart as if pained. “That does seem the only option available, Dona Mia. For now, at least.”
“In every breath, hope abides…” Mia grinned.
She skipped down the stairs off the aft deck and on to the quarter. Jonnen was sat to one side, playing with Eclipse at their own favorite game. The boy would gather up handfuls of shadows and toss them across the boards, and Eclipse would pounce upon them like a puppy at a bone. Jonnen sometimes moved the thrown shadowscraps to evade the daemon’s jaws, and he’d laugh when she missed—though it seemed a laugh of genuine amusement, rather than derision.
He stopped playing as Mia came down the stairs, though, his smile vanishing. Drawing a deep breath, she sat down beside him, legs crossed. Ashlinn had gone to market at Whitekeep, spent most of their coin—but she’d found Mia a good set of leather britches, black and tight, and a pair of wolfskin boots. She’d tossed her leather gladiatii skirt overboard with a small prayer of thanks two turns back.
Best of all though, her girl had returned with …
“Cigarillos?” the boy said, eyeing her with distaste. “Must you?”
“I must,” Mia nodded, propping one at her lips and striking her new flintbox.
“My mother said only strumpets and fools smoke.”
“And which am I, brother mine?” she asked, sighing gray.
The boy watched her with lips pressed thin. “Perhaps both?”
Eclipse coalesced on the boards between them, placing her head in Mia’s lap.
“… YOU SHOULD NOT SPEAK TO HER SO, JONNEN…”
“I shall speak to her how I choose,” the boy declared.
“… DO YOU REMEMBER I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE LITTLE BOY I KNEW? CASSIUS…?”
“Yes,” the boy sniffed, eyeing the wolf sidelong.
“… HE ALWAYS SAID BLOOD STAINS DEEPER THAN WINE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS…?”
The boy shook his head.
“… IT MEANS FAMILIA CAN HURT YOU MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE. BUT THAT IS ONLY BECAUSE THEY MATTER MORE THAN ANYONE ELSE. WHEN YOU SPEAK SO, THOUGH MIA DOES NOT SHOW IT, IT WOUNDS HER…”
“Good,” he snapped. “I do not like her. I do not wish to be here.”
Jonnen looked out to the blue waters rushing along their flanks.
“I want to go home,” he said.
“We’ll pass it in a week or so,” Mia nodded to the Itreyan coast. “Crow’s Nest.”
“That is not my home, Kingmaker.”
“… HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS, CHILD…”
Mia tapped her breast and smiled. “Explains my empty chest.”
“… FOOLISHNESS…,” Eclipse scoffed. “… YOU HAVE THE HEART OF A LION…”
“A crow, perhaps.” She wiggled her fingers at the wolf. “Black and shriveled.”
“… YOU WILL KNOW THE LIE OF THAT BEFORE THE END OF THIS, MIA. I PROMISE…”
Mia smiled and took a slow drag, reveling in the warmth of the smoke in her lungs. Looking sidelong toward Jonnen. Brother. Stranger. He was clever, that much was certain: education from the finest tutors in the Republic, coupled with the fierce intelligence of Alinne Corvere and the cunning of Julius Scaeva. Watching the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, Mia suspected he’d grow up even sharper than she was. There was a cruel streak in him, learned from his father, most like. But there was a cruelty to her, too, she supposed. Jonnen was still her blood, her familia. The only kind she had left, unless you counted the bastard she was going to kill. And after all these years without one, she found herself aching for some kind of real connection with him.
“I remember the nevernight you were born there,” she told the boy. “In Crow’s Nest. I was barely older than you are now. The midwife brought me in to meet you, and Mother handed you over to me and you started screaming. Just … screaming like the world was ending.” Mia shook her head. “’Byss and blood, you had some lungs on you.”
Another drag, eyes narrowed against the smoke.
“Mother told me to sing to you,” she said. “She said even though your eyes were shut, you’d know your sister. So I sang. And you stopped crying. Like someone threw a lever inside your head.” She shook her head. “Damnedest thing.”
“My mother does not sing,” Jonnen said. “She dislikes music.”
“O, no, she loved it,” Mia insisted. “She used to sing all the
time, she—”
“My mother is Liviana Scaeva,” the boy said. “Wife of the imperator.”
Mia felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. Pulse thudding in her temple. Despite herself, she felt her brows drawing together in a scowl. Breathing smoke like fire.
“Your mother was Alinne Corvere,” she said. “Victim of the imperator.”
“Liar,” the boy scowled.
“Jonnen, why would I—”
“You’re a liar! A liar!”
“And you’re a fucking brat,” she snapped.
“Villain,” he spat. “Thief. Killer.”
“Like father, like daughter, I suppose.”
“My father is a great man!” Jonnen cried.
“Your father’s a cunt.”
“And your mother a whore!”
It took everything Mia had in her not to raise her hand to him again.
“… MIA…”
She hauled herself to her feet, her patience in flames. Shaking with anger. Wanting to bite her tongue but afraid the blood would just fill her mouth and drown her. Talking to the boy was like bashing her head into a brick wall. Trying to crack his shell was like fumbling at a lock with ten fucking thumbs. She’d no practice at being a big sister, no talent for it besides. And so, as was usual, frustration unlocked the door and let her temper out to run free instead.
“I’m trying, Jonnen,” she said. “Maw’s teeth, I am. If you were anyone else, I’d have kicked your arse over the side for what you said just now. But don’t you ever speak like that about her again. She loved you. Do you hear me?”
“All I hear, Kingmaker,” he spat, “are lies from the mouth of a murderer.”
She took a deep breath. Head lowered, eyes closed.
“I hope you like storms more than you did when you were a babe,” she said, looking at him again. “There’s a big one headed our way. And if I hear you crying in your sleep, I’ll not come singing this time.”
“I hate you,” the boy hissed.
She flicked her cigarillo over the railing, breathing smoke.
“Like father, like son, I suppose.”
* * *
It wasn’t a bath so much as a brass barrel.
Darkdawn Page 18
