He wasn’t aware that she had such a thing as a conscience, but he had enough sense to let the comment slide. Maybe he was finally growing up. He took the pouch from her hand and tucked it into his jacket with a nod. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Take care of yourself.”
Tyler knew Negrita wasn’t saying that for herself. “You too. And keep her safe.”
“Like you have to tell me that.”
~
Irena watched her parents embrace from the deck, then strode down the gangplank herself, to where no one was waiting. She’d expected him to at least be able to stomach seeing her return. She knew it had been weird between them lately, they’d been talking a lot more than they ever had before. In some ways she felt closer to him now than she ever had before. If she thought about it, she’d never enjoyed talking to someone as much as him. She’d certainly never felt comfortable enough to tell anyone besides Jim about the ghosts. She turned to Jim, at her back, as he always seemed to be. “Where’s Tyler?”
“I don’t know Captain.”
“Find out.”
Jim nodded, and scurried off into the crowds.
Anya and Negrita appeared, filtering through the hustle and bustle. She smiled as she saw them, and couldn’t help but feel a little more secure at their presence. Anya’s grin faded as she clocked the faked element of her Captain’s features. She was good at reading her. “What’s going on?”
“Tyler, he’s missing.” There was no point hiding what had thrown her.
Negrita nodded, “I know.”
“What do you mean you know? Where is he?”
She sighed, dark hair spilling over her shoulder. Irena knew she’d tell her, but some patience had her anger spiking again. “He left hours ago. He doesn’t plan on coming back.”
“And you didn’t think to stop him?” There it was, the snap.
“I wasn’t aware he was supposed to stay.”
Irena huffed, and tried to quell the panic that rose in her chest. Then wondered why she was worried. He could look after himself couldn’t he? He was a Master Thief. And there were no guarantees with pirate crew, he didn’t have to stay if he didn’t want to. He’d never been forced to stay. But she’d kind of already thought of him as a permanent fixture. He was her thief. She strode to the castle, her castle. It was still strange to think of it like that. It was still something of a maze to her, she was yet to figure out where most of the rooms are, but she’d at least memorised the quickest route to her favourite room. Her office. It was smaller and cosier than most rooms in the castle, something of an alcove off of the main meeting room, but it made her feel calmer. A roaring fire was already settled in the hearth, the view over the water bright and beautiful. Floor to ceiling bookcases framed the fireplace, with a mahogany desk facing the flames, and a chair almost as large as the god dammed throne. She’d be changing the chair soon. Still, it was comfortable at least. The ceremony would be starting soon, they’d held off for longer than they’d wanted to just to let her get to Crescent Bay. A pile of paperwork had built up, but that would have to wait. She was supposed to be getting dressed. But she’d wanted to see him.
Though she held a hope that he’d still be around somewhere, she knew deep down that he’d be long gone. There was trade from the Island now. There would have been a boat willing to take him elsewhere. He wouldn’t have stuck around. A knock at the door interrupted her, Anya’s face peeped around. “Don’t tell me you forgot where your room was again.”
Irena shook her head, “I just needed a minute.”
“Well come on, there are so many bloody buttons on this thing its gonna take me ages to get you in it.”
The room was too big. A room fit for kings, not captains. Irena sat at her dressing table. Despite what she’d said to Anya she hadn’t remembered how to get to her rooms. Her mind had been otherwise occupied. Bathing had not settled the knot in her stomach. She brushed back her wet hair and dipped one of her brushes in the kohl. It was her mother’s painted assassin, Roselyn, who’d taught Irena how to put on makeup. She told her stories of warriors who’d use war paint to intimidate their enemies, told her how women use makeup in the same way, that it could be a weapon. She’d proved it by becoming one of the finest assassins in the world. She still was a formidable woman. Irena hadn’t seen her in years, had no idea where her and Eli would be now. They were an odd couple, Eli looked a lot younger than her though Irena knew he wasn’t. She’d done enough travelling of her own to come across the Princes of the Wastes and recognise him as one of them. Once you knew what to look for it wasn’t hard to miss. They’d never had children of their own, but had both been constantly present in her own childhood. Family, though not through blood. She had a lot of people like that. Irena finished her eyes and glanced at Anya, who was busy laying out the dress on the bed.
“Any word of Tyler?”
“No.” Sharper than usual from Anya.
Irena didn’t press it, but couldn’t stop herself from muttering, “I just don’t understand. Why now?”
“You don’t know?” Anya laughed to herself. “He was in love with you.”
“What?” Irena nearly dropped her brush. “I knew that he liked me, I thought he was just –”
“Do you love him?”
“I, I don’t know.”
Anya released whatever cap she had on her emotions, “I love him. I told him that I loved him, but he didn’t feel the same way, because he was in love with you. Even after he found out you were taken. He tried to stay, he tried to make it work. But he couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t keep lying to himself. Answer me, do you love him?”
“Anya –”
“Because if you let him go right now, if you don’t try to get him back, then you’re more stupid than he is.”
She didn’t stay to help Irena with her dress.
~
Irena paced her office, her palms sweaty, her heart hammering in her chest. The ceremony had gone without fault, everyone had marvelled at her dress. Navy blue, the colour of the darkest depths of the ocean, with a high neck and a floating panel plunging from her shoulder across her back and down to her hip. Corsetless, floorlength, a long train marking her path, the edges traced in an outline of white gossamer, reminiscent of cresting waves. She was like the sea personified. She flipped the train out of her way impatiently, treading another path across the carpet.
Irena was wary of water. Not afraid of it, because how could you be when you’d grown up side by side with the waves. But she was wary of it. There were depths of the oceans that no one could predict, creatures and tides that could creep up on you in the unknown darkness of water. She learned to swim at a young age, forced herself to keep her eyes open. She hated closing her eyes under there. Even in a bath she refused to close her eyes when she dunked her head under. It was a superstitious notion perhaps, that if she closed her eyes something would happen, something could creep up on her. But she’d seen whales leaping out of the crests of the waves, caught sight of the fins of sharks as they swarmed at a wreck, seen dead men dragged back up on deck with the marks of tentacles branded into their skin. There were things to be afraid of in the depths.
She’d been a careful child, or as careful as you can be growing up on a pirate ship. She would always assess situations. Her brothers would leap into action, scurrying up the rigging, leaping out into the waves. No fear, no caution. Irena had always taken a moment to think, to look. She’d grown out of it as she’d got older, for the most part. But perhaps a certain amount of it still existed. She was never without a weapon, she always tied a safety line about her middle when she was up on the masts, despite the trust she had in her own abilities. And she never fell in love.
There was an odd ringing in her ears, like the aftermath of the cannons. He’d never told her. He’d let her think that he was just playing, like she was. That it was purely physical. He was in love with you.
But who was she kidding. She’d known something was different. Beyo
nd the way the men in her life tended to mope after her, he didn’t look at her like that, had never treated her like she was disposable. He’d been as up for the game as she’d been, but somewhere along the way something had changed…for the both of them. He’d asked her if she’d break it off with Howard. If she loved her fiancé. And she hadn’t had an answer. She saw now the questions he’d been trying to ask. What he’d really wanted to know.
Her foot dragged on the floor as she forced herself to stop.
“Made a decision?”
She looked up, relaxing as she recognised the Westerner before her. “Marco. What are you doing here?”
“Little flame, you might have just become Pirate Lord, but first and foremost you are my goddaughter. I have every right to turn up when you least expect me. And I think congratulations are in order. But you don’t look too happy. What’s dampening you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” Marco smiled, his tattoo flickering along his cheekbone. “Better to make mistakes in judgement than to spend the rest of your life regretting not taking action. Make me a promise, whatever it is that’s making you feel like this. Do something about it.”
Irena bit at her lip. Made a decision. “Jim!” her yell cut though the silence of the castle. She still wasn’t used to it, no creaking wood, no crash of the waves. She’d be here as little as possible, she was sure of that. Just as soon as she’d got through that damn tower of paperwork.
Jim hadn’t been far away, he never strayed too far from her side. “Captain?”
“Summon my brothers. I have a job for them.”
Chapter 22
Crimson
It was raining, but it was warm enough that it was a relief more than anything. Still, Tyler pulled up his collar to keep off the worst of the damp. He wrinkled his nose, it smelled like gunpowder. He slipped a hand to his waistband, drawing and cocking the pistol he’d taken to carrying about with him. Rats didn’t last long around him now. It did feel good to be out on the streets again. Maybe that had been his mistake in the first place, letting them think of him as a figure behind a desk, letting them forget that he was perfectly capable of doing the jobs he dished out. They’d thought he was losing his touch, perhaps that he’d grown afraid to get his hands dirty. But he hadn’t got to where he was just by using his brains and sweet-talking his way out of trouble. As he’d told Irena, amongst thieves arguments were settled by fists.
“Crimson, it’s good to have you back.”
Tyler braced himself for the heavy slap on the back that was Magenta’s typical greeting. It toppled his balance only slightly. His old friend grinned, folding his massive arms across his chest. Tyler was lucky that the loyal ones had kept their heads above water. But Magenta had always been one of the smarter ones. The heavy pulled out a cigarillo, offered one to Tyler, who shook his head. A light appeared from somewhere, sparked into life. Magenta drew heavily, then released a cloud of smoke with a smile.
“I thought I told you to quit smoking.” Tyler shoved the pistol back into its holster, he was twitchy these days.
Magenta shrugged, not commenting on the weapon. “You ain’t been around all that much.”
“Well if you’re that confident that you can still outrun me with all that crap in your lungs then fine.” In fact he was really tempted to take Magenta up on his offer after all. He’d never needed a cigarette so much in his life. But he maintained control. What else was there.
The flat-lipped man snorted, took another drag of the cigarillo. “What’s the lie of the land tonight?”
“Word is there’s something going on in the lower levels. Made sense for us to show face. Make sure they remember whose territory they’re causing trouble on.” He wiped a hand through his sodden hair, shaking the water free.
“Aye aye sir.”
Tyler narrowed his eyes, “I’ve already told you none of them speak like that.” He’d recounted his time on Siren’s Call, and received more than enough amusement about it, from Magenta especially. He’d at least been glad he wasn’t dead though. They’d hung another man in his place, kept the bag over his head. It didn’t do good for the reputation of the watch if they couldn’t keep a man like him down. There will have been those who’d paid a pretty hefty price to watch him dangle too. Tyler couldn’t wait to see the rest of them in the flesh. He’d already made a few reunions, firstly with the man who’d dobbed him in. It had been too early to build up connections, so Tyler had found he had to do the task himself after all. Perhaps others who’d crossed him would consider it a warning and be smart enough to get out of his way. He had fewer enemies now at least.
Tyler glanced over his shoulder, flicked a finger at Magenta. They disappeared into the shadows. He’d once been used to hearing his comrade’s breath at his back, to smelling the aniseed smoke from his cigarillos, but it felt like a lifetime ago now. Tyler forced back a cough, rubbing at his nose. He refused to check over his shoulder again. He was being paranoid, if anything was up Magenta would spot it. He’d been with him that day too, he’d been the one who warned him about Rust. Tyler had started getting the sense that someone was watching him a few days back. Not constant, but occurring enough that it was pissing him off. Enough that he’d taken a few additional security measures. He’d added new locks to his considerably complicated door, but even then didn’t feel comfortable staying there every night. He varied his routine, tried to remain in trustworthy company, though they were few and far between. Someone was tracking him, taking note of his movements. If they thought he was going to run away then they had another think coming. He was back, and he was doing pretty damn well for himself. There was no way he was leaving now.
He shouldn’t really be bringing Magenta along tonight, they both knew it. He should have sent one of the lower downs to deal with it, bash a few skulls, create a bit of noise. But when he felt angsty like this there wasn’t anything better than a brawl. As heavies went Magenta was clever, and Tyler at least liked to think that he could trust the man.
He kicked his way into one of the grimier bars, pushing his way through amidst grumbles and shouts. They stopped complaining when they caught sight of the new mark displayed on his forearm. He’d been sure to roll up his sleeves before they entered, sodden coat hooked over a finger, dampening the back of his waistcoat. The tattooist had made it larger than he’d expected, but he supposed it wasn’t a mark to conceal. There was a certain security to his position now. He didn’t need to worry about the watch taking stock of tattoos. Tyler went to the bar, tossing his coat to a barmaid, and watched as Magenta caught the attention of the slower members of the crowd.
He’d been a regular in here once, in his younger days. The landlord remembered his face at least. He rolled over a large scotch. It would be on the house. Tyler took a mouthful. It had kicked off. They were all shouting, a fair few punches had been thrown. He could smell blood on the air. He tapped his fingers against the glass, sat it back on the counter. Then he drew his pistol and shot at the ceiling. It was considerably quieter as he lowered it back to his side. His other hand found the comforting embrace of a pair of bronze knuckle dusters that had been residing in his pocket.
“Too much noise. You better be careful who hears you. Smart people keep their heads down, particularly when they’re told to explicitly by someone who is their superior.” Tyler cocked the pistol once more and used it to point at a couple sitting in one of the booths. “You’re both to come with me now.”
“We’re making good money, you got nothing to be angry with us about.”
Tyler grinned, “If this job was all about making money there’d be a lot more people doing it. Magenta knows what it’s really about, I know what it’s really about.” He put the pistol back into his pocket. They’d still made no move to get up. He took a couple of steps across the floor, a path cleared for him, “So, what’s it all about?” He ran a dice between the fingers of his unarmed hand, not surprised that no answer was given. He finished the sentence himself,
bronze flashing as his fist connected with flesh. “Style.”
~
Magenta whistled as they left the bar. Someone had cracked open his temple, and his brown hair had fallen out of its plait. A scratch on his neck betrayed that someone had been stupid enough to try to slice it open. Tyler was similarly gifted with terms of endearment from his fans. As it should be. They’d thrown their weight around and now any question as to who was in charge had been answered. For now at least. Thieves always got a little jumpy, especially when a new hierarchy came into play. Tyler rubbed at his broken knuckles, spat blood onto the cobbles. Adrenaline pulsed through him, he knew he’d be sore in the morning if he didn’t find a deep bath and a few more glasses of scotch. As for Magenta, knowing him he’d be headed to the whorehouses. He liked to find company after a fight.
“Think that’ll settle them down?”
“Lets hope so. I get sick of repeating myself.”
“It was like the old days back there.” Magenta laughed deep in his throat, flicked another cigarillo from his pack. “So, when you gonna tell me about this girl?”
“What girl?”
“There was obviously a girl. What else would have distracted you long enough to keep you off the streets? Whoever she is she must be someone special.”
“She is. But not for me.”
“Look I get if you don’t want to talk about it–”
“Then why don’t you shut up?!” He’d not shouted at Magenta like that before. Not had to. Not wanted to. His friend opened his mouth a couple of times, then looked at the floor. Despite the bulk of him, his expression always conveyed nothing more than pure innocence. Handy when you’re a criminal.
Tyler felt like he’d kicked a puppy. “I’m sorry, I’m riled up. I didn’t mean to shout.”
Magenta nodded, cleared his throat, “I’ll be heading off. I take it you can see yourself back alright.”
Daughter of Wolves Page 17