The Pirate's Lady

by Julia Knight

  Ansen grinned suddenly, sly, enjoying himself. Van Gast’s knife appeared in his hand, twirling over and over. Not bad going, for his age. “The blue cubby, she said. She’ll kill you, I bet. She shot your bed. Lots. Feathers everywhere. I bet Skrymir she’d shoot you too. Right in the face. A silver seal on it.”

  “Thank you for that comforting thought, Ansen.”

  Van Gast hesitated at turning his back on the boy—he might be only five or thereabouts, but he had a knife, a powerful dislike of him, and racketeering in his blood. But Ansen just laughed as he made for the door to Kyr’s Palace, and faint words followed him into the dim interior. “Going to shoot you!”

  The coolness of the inn was a balm after the searing heat of the street. Van Gast wiped at his top lip with a flounced kerchief and made his way to the blue cubby. One of the smaller ones, decked out in the soft deep blue of the sea in sunlight.

  He stepped in, ready to quiz Josie on the twist, on what was going on, who she intended to scam, and was met with the bulky sight of Skrymir, all dressed up in mail and wool, sweating like a stuck pig. No Josie in sight.

  “You look…smart.” Skrymir said with a snort of laughter.

  “Same to you, too, with bells on. Speaking of which, where are your bells? And where’s—”

  “My wife, the Lady Amana, is being escorted into the palace by a son of the council, as our esteemed trading partner, Mr. Ibsen, did not do us the courtesy of arriving on time.” Skrymir glanced at the door to the cubby.

  Wife? When Van Gast followed Skrymir’s look, he glimpsed the outline of two guards, waiting, watching and probably listening. Skrymir shook his head, just a touch, and laid a card on the table. The writing was all done in the finest green ink, the script as fanciful as a top-class whore. Lord Brimeld, Lady Amana and retinue invited to a trade reception as ambassadors of the Gan. A trade reception inside the palace.

  Oh, Josie, love, you have outdone yourself.

  “My apologies, Lord Brimeld. A last minute hitch.” Van Gast had to bite his lip to keep the laugh inside, at the thought of Skrymir being a lord, at the way he was plainly uncomfortable in the twist. Gan were known for their honesty, and Van Gast knew Skrymir for his loyalty. He reckoned both were being tested right about now.

  Skrymir led the way out of Kyr’s Palace and the guards flanked them as they made their way to the entrance to the licensed trading area. The invitation was thoroughly inspected, as were they, before with a little flourish the lead guard allowed them through. “Straight on to the palace, sirs. You’ll be met at the doors.”

  As they strolled along the avenue, past a line of guards who were far enough away not to hear, Van Gast looked over the gracious houses, the docks that were finer by far than any he’d ever berthed in. “Kyr’s mercy, a rack could be set for life robbing just one of these.” The thought of it made his fingers tingle, made him itch to try it.

  “Van, keep a hold of yourself. Mr. Ibsen, rather.” Skrymir scowled ahead, toward the palace. “She’s after more than that.”

  “I thought she might be. The Yelen, that’s what she’s after, right? What’s the plan? And is Lord Brimeld a safe name?”

  “Safe enough. He really is a duke, my duke as it happens, my mother’s cousin. He won’t be turning up any time soon though. Spent the last ten years locked up in his tower waiting for his betrothed to come back, because he can’t believe she’s dead. Poor bastard went mad after he betrayed her.” Skrymir said it nonchalantly enough, but the meaning barbed Van Gast’s heart.

  “Very pointed. Very deep. Thank you for that. The plan?”

  Skrymir laughed and clapped a hand on Van Gast’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “Same as always, steal everything not nailed down. That’s your usual plan isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but details would be nice. Look what happened last time.”

  Skrymir shrugged and his mail jingled ominously. Van Gast wondered again what he’d done with his bells. “You were late, didn’t leave us time to explain.”

  “Yes, well, punctuality is not something I have a lot of time for.”

  They were approaching the doors to the palace now, too late for more talk, for details. Van Gast would have to do what he loved best and fly by the seat of his rather fine breeches. The tingle in his fingers grew as he contemplated how much wealth was concentrated in this one place. The itch in his chest grew too. Josie cozying up to a son of the council…someone at the palace after his blood…someone ready to turn him over.

  Enough. Concentrate on the twist. No point second-guessing her now, you’ll always lose that game.

  The palace stretched above them, a vast blocky stub of a building decorated with frescos and statues of mermaids and sharks and the like. Not particularly good ones, it had to be said. Estovan was known for mercenary trade, not art. Black wooden doors studded with iron stood open at the head of a shallow flight of steps. Merchanters milled about, reacquainting themselves with old trading partners or finding new ones. The way they moved through the crowds, some still, some swooping past groups to hail another, some homing in on a likely target, reminded Van Gast of reef sharks patrolling for scavenge, the way they’d lurk about a stricken boat, just waiting for the meat they knew would be theirs in the end.

  Two figures stood by the doors. It took a moment before Van Gast realized the woman was Josie, all prim and proper in a dress again, her hair pinned in a bun. She watched Van Gast and Skrymir approach with a blank face and set lips, but a sly wink in Van Gast’s direction made his heart squeeze painfully. She was giving him his chance, probably the only chance he would get. Lady number three wasn’t her, it couldn’t be, he wouldn’t believe it. He’d just staked his life on it.

  Van Gast and Skrymir came up the steps, and Skrymir greeted his “wife” with a chaste peck on the cheek. Van Gast bent low over her hand, lingering just that little too long as he appreciated the cleavage that became available at eye level. He could almost hear her voice in his head, tinged with laughter. Andor Van Gast, is that all you ever think of? And the only truthful answer. With you in the room, Josienne? Yes, yes it is.

  A night that seemed a lifetime ago, before everything had turned to shit, an easy togetherness he might never get again.

  A pointed cough from Skrymir jerked him back.

  “As always, Lord Brimeld, your wife quite entrances me.” Van Gast didn’t miss the grin, quickly suppressed, on Josie’s face.

  “Yes, so I see. Mr. Ibsen, if I could introduce Rillen, a son of the council? He’s agreed to help us with our proposal.”

  Van Gast looked at the man by Josie’s side for the first time and almost choked. No wonder the itch had grown as they walked up the avenue, closer and closer to this man. The guard who’d been right behind him at the temple, who’d called his name, shot at him and almost hit. The man Gilda had asked to see.

  The man who knew his secret name.

  * * *

  Rillen had to admit that Van Gast hid his shock very well. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he might never have noticed the twitch as Van Gast recognized him. His surprise was soon buried under a smooth professionalism, a bland trading face like the rest of the merchanters. If Rillen hadn’t known it was him, it wouldn’t have occurred to him to link the renowned racketeer Van Gast, half glimpsed in an orange-black sunset, with this pompous trader, all fine cloth and perfumed kerchief.

  Rillen smiled and chatted amiably with the three of them as they made their way into the palace, past the guards dressed in their finest, past vast murals that lined the two-story high walls of the atrium, tinkling fountains that cooled the air, and potted ferns that softened the stark corners of the room.

  Of the three of them, only the big Gan seemed at all ill at ease. If Rillen hadn’t known…but he did, and they’d come to regret that.

  “My father is very interested in your proposal,” he said, the first lie of the evening. “I’m sure we can all make a lot of money.”

  Josie came to an abrupt halt as
she spotted the dais, her face pale, her lips pinched to whiteness. She recovered well enough, but Van Gast moved a touch closer to her, his hand at the ready as though to comfort her, though he looked shaken himself.

  Rillen looked up at the dais, wondering what could cause the reaction. Not his father surely. The glitter of a mage caught his eye. Their crystal casings had grown back in now, covering the pallid, wrinkled flesh underneath. They sat, unmoving, implacable and shining, a beacon to every eye. A warning to every heart.

  Josie turned to Rillen, her smile a bright and brittle thing. Her hand traced along his arm. “So, Rillen, how does trading work in your city? Mr. Ibsen tells me it’s quite different to how the Gan operate, but I can’t believe half what he says is true.”

  Rillen let his words flow smooth like wine while he watched Van Gast, the sheen of sweat suddenly on his top lip as he studied the mages. Something a little odd there. Most of the merchanters were casting sly looks that way, interested, some apprehensive, and that wasn’t surprising considering how few people had seen a Remorian mage before today. They were myths, shadowy figures who ran their bonded slaves like puppets. Curiosity and fear shivered through the reception, but muted because Remoria was no more, not the power it had once been. Tame mages were mages not to worry overmuch about, though treating Urgaut with caution was a safe bet. Yet for Josie and Van Gast it seemed more than that. It was recognition—and a hint of dread. Oh, I must be able to use that.

  He turned the smile at that thought on Josie. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go and confer with my father and his mages.” Yes, there, a flinch in an otherwise perfect performance. A weakness to use. “Please, enjoy yourselves. I shan’t be long, I promise.”

  Rillen’s father lay back on his cushions, his fingers slippery with grease from the stuffed pig on the table before him, deep in conversation with two of the city’s wealthiest traders. No sign of the other councilors though.

  Urgaut ignored Rillen and he went past, up to Bissan’s side. Bissan’s gaze slid sideways, but he kept his face still so as not to disturb any crystals. The stench of him was indescribable this close, a musty, cloying smell that made Rillen want to gag.

  “Are we still agreed?” Rillen asked.

  The hint of a smile, a breathed, “Yes.”

  “Good. Do you have a bond ready?”

  A questioning look, but the mage said nothing. At a twitch of his fingers, the girl picked up a silk bag. It writhed in her hand as she held it out for Rillen. He took it warily, trying not to touch the parts that moved.

  “Be careful of it. It will attach to the first unbonded person it finds.”

  “Rillen!” His father, looking more than half drunk, flushed about the jowls and sweating.

  Rillen slid the pouch into a pocket, his skin twitching as it writhed there. Gods alive, he wished he could bond the old fart rather than kill him.

  “Well?” Urgaut said.

  “Van Gast shall be yours by the end of the evening.” Possibly. But you’ll be dead, so it won’t matter.

  Urgaut pursed his fleshy lips. “Make sure of it.”

  “I live to serve.” Rillen turned away, glad to be free of the sight of his father, and scanned the room, looking for Van Gast.

  * * *

  As soon as Rillen had gone—he didn’t seem to have recognized Mr. Ibsen as Van Gast, thanks to Kyr’s mercy and his way with a disguise—Van Gast turned to Josie. She dropped the demure look, and her mouth curved into a grin. “Inside the Yelen palace. Bet you never thought you’d get in here, Van.”

  A flick of her gaze and a nod sent Skrymir off somewhere, and she took Van Gast’s hand, led him into a quiet alcove shrouded in thick ferns. Nice and private. Things were starting to look up.

  “It’s not getting in that worries me so much,” Van Gast said, and then forgot the rest of what he was about to say when she gave him one of those lopsided grins that squeezed his heart.

  Trouble for someone, somewhere, that grin. Worries were relegated to a nebulous cloud at the back of his mind. Even the itch behind his ribs was forgotten as her hand found his, as she leaned toward him and her breath was a soft flutter on his throat.

  “So what are we here for, Josie?” His voice came out rough with the conflict of wanting to kiss her stupid, right here and now, maybe find a quiet room with a stout lock on the door…and wondering just what she was about, the thrill of the unknown, of twisting someone till they screamed, or maybe till he screamed. Hard to tell, with Josie.

  She moved closer and the rest of the world ceased to exist. It was just the two of them, in their own little bubble. No palace, no servants plying everyone with drinks, no Yelen, no guards or mages or even ships to return to. Just Van Gast, with his desperate urge to say “fuck it” to the lot of them, to kiss her, to lick that little bead of sweat forming in the dark, inviting cleft between her breasts, to make things right and have her back again. And Josie, with her devious grin that thrilled him, her uneven breath as he drew closer. Just him and her, how it should be.

  Her soft, smoky voice. “Best two reasons there are, Van. Revenge and money. Lots of money. How about it?”

  Her voice wavered, just a touch on that last. Her gaze found his, pinned him with the gray of her eyes, storm-bound, blowing through him like a good sou’wester, and he couldn’t resist any more. Might get a knife in his back for his trouble, but Kyr’s mercy, it’d be a good way to go. Rob, kill or delight. Odds were one in three.

  “How about this instead?” He kissed her, pulling her in, a kiss to make him crazy. A heartbeat’s hesitation, and then her hand was warm on the back of his neck, her other hand twining with his, squeezing as though she dare not let him go, needing him, making him hope. He slid his lips around, across her neck, down to that tantalizing bead of sweat…

  Her low laugh sent chills across his shoulders. “Andor Van Gast, is that all you ever think of?”

  He licked the sweat, savored the salt on his tongue and watched a ripple of gooseflesh run across her breast. “Pretty much. You are all I ever think of.”

  Her hand stroked at the back of his neck, feather soft as it tangled his hair. “While you’re down there, Van—”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He could have stayed there all day, watching the heave of her breasts, licking the sweat. “Though I might burst. Could be messy.”

  Her hand clipped the back of his head. “Inside the neckline. A key.”

  “Oh.” Now he looked, sadly disappointed, there was a discreet bulge at one side of her cleavage. A key wrapped in a scrap of cloth. It was fun getting it out though. “Is business all you think about?”

  “No, not all.”

  The smile was one he hadn’t seen for a long time, maybe not since the first time he’d met her, alone and not wanting anyone to know it, covering it since then with sharp words and sharper steel. A sad smile from a fractured heart for something lost, a fleeting look that was gone as soon as it was there.

  Her hand stroked his cheek, ran across his lips. “Do you trust me?”

  She always asked the most awkward damned questions. Did he? Could he? He hadn’t before and that was why he was here now, not knowing for sure whether she was trying to give him his chance or get him killed. “Josie, I—yes. And I should have before, I know—”

  Her fingers on his lips shut him up. “Ready to prove it?”

  His heart seemed to be thudding right behind his eyes. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  She pulled his head to her, kissed him slowly, thoroughly, shivering his heart and parts more diverse. When she stopped he had to take a gulp of breath to steady himself.

  “Hide the key, wherever you can. Key to the cell, or should be. The special cell. Wait for us.”

  “The cell?”

  Her mouth hooked up in her lopsided grin. Oh, trouble for someone. “Thing is, Van, you’re the bait. Ten thousand golden sharks was just too good to pass up.”

  “Wh—”

  Van Gast didn’t have time for mo
re, didn’t have time to feel the shock, or to turn and try to run before a meaty hand landed on his shoulder with the force of a cannonball, yanked him out into the open atrium and spun him round.

  “What in Oku’s name do you think you’re doing with my wife?” Skrymir bellowed. The fist that followed had Van Gast off his feet, sliding along the marble floor, bells jangling, eyesight blurring with colors, sounds making no sense.

  Skrymir picked him up by the hair, dragged him upright and got him with a slap like being hit by a door, a solid blow that would have sent him to the floor again if his hair wasn’t trapped in a fist the size of a melon.

  “Answer me then.”

  Skrymir’s deep voice echoed round Van Gast’s head, and he had to concentrate to understand. The game, play the sodding game, that’s all it was. Whatever the fuck that was. Go with it, with her. Go with the twist and hope like fuck.

  He grinned up at Skrymir, trying for a leer. When he answered it was through lips already swelling, on a tongue tinged with blood. “A demonstration, how trading works in Estovan. A little grease to slick the wheels, eh? We could swap, if you like? I’ve got a concubine tucked away in the delta, fabulous soft hands, she could—”

  Skrymir sent him flying with a force that felt as if it took Van’s jaw half off. He propped himself on his hands and tried to stand up, but his feet appeared to belong to someone else. Kyr’s mercy, if this was a game, Skrymir was taking it just that tad too seriously.

  Then the game lost all its fun. Booted feet surrounded him, dyed the dark green of the Yelen palace guard. Worse even than those that patrolled the city, or so rumor had it. Look at one the wrong way, and the next decade was spent in the dungeons.

  Van Gast looked up, wiped away a smear of blood from his lips and saw Rillen approach with a sly grin that would put a shark to shame.

  Rillen stopped just out of Van Gast’s reach and his soft voice seemed achingly loud in the sudden silence of a hundred merchanters calculating what was going on, what it meant, how they could profit from a Gan ambassador falling out with his trading partner. Van Gast could smell the greed like the pig fat in his hair—a greasy smell that made him want to retch. He might steal a lot, but not for the cash, for the thrill. Whatever he stole he generally frittered away, having no interest in keeping any, except his little retirement fund that would help him and his crew if ever they needed it. He hadn’t even missed it when Josie stole it with his ship, because it was her and the ship he missed, not the money. This was different. This was greed for greed’s sake.