The Pirate's Lady

by Julia Knight

  Even as she said it, doors opened at the other end of the garden and a phalanx of guards came out, pistols drawn. Tallia grabbed Holden by the elbow and dragged him through an arch to another part of the garden, full of fruit trees and ordered beds of herbs, down a ramp to a small doorway at the end, set under the palace. No guards stood by it, and when Tallia tried the handle, it wasn’t locked.

  Tallia eased the door shut behind them and slid a bolt across. “Kitchen door, only gets locked last thing, after the cooks have gone to bed.”

  The narrow corridor was brightly lit from brass lamps hung along the walls.

  “How do you know all this, and where are we going?” And Ilsa, what was he going to do about Ilsa? She’d betrayed Van, and Josie. But she was his wife, and he had a duty.

  “We’re going to see if we can get Van and Josie out. I used to work here. My father was a patrolman, I told you that. He got me a job in the palace. Working for Rillen. It didn’t work out.”

  “Tallia—”

  She turned away with a set look and led him on. Not about to be drawn, not yet. She pushed open a door, soft and quiet, and looked around before she waved him in after her into a cavern of a kitchen.

  Cooks and maids and waiters ran to and fro in the steam, a chaotic mess of shouts and arguments and fragrant spices. No one seemed to notice two extras. Tallia pulled Holden into a quiet corner, squashed up together by a larder.

  “We’ll be safe enough here for a while.”

  Her eyes were very wide and dark as she looked up at him, her mouth quivering. Holden was tempted, so very tempted, to kiss that quiver away, to have her smile at him. He controlled himself with an effort, with the cold dash of Ilsa in his thoughts.

  “And then what?” he asked. “Ilsa, how could she, why did she? Van Gast saved us from the bond, freed us. Without him we’d—”

  “Without him, you’d never have seen Josie again. Revenge, that’s what this started out as. I think it grew from there though. I think Ilsa found out who she really is without the bond, and it’s not someone you’d like.”

  “How do you know this? You’re wrong, you have to be.”

  She couldn’t be right. Mistrust was what had brought them all here—he wasn’t about to make the same mistake Van Gast had. Ilsa wouldn’t, she couldn’t. How would she know this Rillen anyway? It was Tallia, it had to be, making up lies to confuse him, playing them all off against each other.

  “How do I know? Because I have eyes, because my little magics run that way and I see the strands that bind, and pull apart. Because I know about you and Josie, and I know that sailors gossip worse than women, and even if you haven’t told Ilsa, one of them has, same as they told me and Gilda Van’s secret name. They were talking about it in the mess. Because Ilsa loves you, or thought she did, because the bond once told her to. You were all she had left, and she wanted to make Josie hurt like Josie hurt her when she tumbled you, only now she doesn’t want you anymore, but she’s still bent on hurting Josie.”

  Holden couldn’t look at her, at the pity in her dark eyes, the sad twist of her mouth. He’d wanted Ilsa to be happy, but she hadn’t been. He’d wanted to make things good between them, but couldn’t, and he hadn’t known why. She’d been loving at times, cold at others. And that coldness had started when? He couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t be sure she knew about him and Josie—he’d certainly never said, other than to say he’d known her years before. He’d wanted Ilsa to be happy because that was his duty, because he was responsible for her, but he didn’t know what it would take to make her happy, hadn’t known what she wanted. Because he’d been afraid to ask, afraid of what the answer would be.

  It couldn’t be true, she couldn’t have done this, condemned Van Gast and Josie for this, for jealousy. She was his wife, he had to trust to her, not some random girl he’d found for crew, a girl who made Van itch. Maybe—

  Of course. This Rillen was playing Ilsa. She’d never been away from home before, never tasted Estovan and its devious delights, never dealt with racks or merchanters who’d con you or deal you out of a fortune as soon as look at you. Ilsa believed what people told her, because she’d no reason not to—a bonded man would rarely lie, couldn’t lie unless his master ordered it. She’d known nothing but bonded men and women until the bonds had gone. Maybe this was her madness, as the men had suffered their rages. Or Rillen had fooled her—he must have, must have found out whose ship she was on, played her and drawn it out of her. She was his victim, not the instigator.

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “You must be.” She must be because his mistake, his guilt, couldn’t be the cause of Van and Josie being in those cells. “You’re wrong.”

  She took his hand and started to say something, but he shook her off.

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing, what lies you’re spinning, but you’re wrong. And you’re going to help me get Van and Josie out of those cells, and Ilsa out from Rillen’s clutches. Right now.”

  * * *

  Van Gast tested the door while Josie called through the grille.

  “Skrymir?”

  The answering voice was faint but determined. “Aye, Josie. I’m still here. It’s not as bad as it looks. The mail took the worst of it. Haban’s patched me, enough for now. Enough to get out of this stink pit.”

  “How’s Haban?” Van Gast called. “I never thanked him for not handing me over about that diamond.”

  “I’m alive at least.” Haban’s voice had lost its boom and ghosted down the corridor. “You can thank me by getting me out of here. Any idea how we’ll manage that?”

  “Good question.” Van Gast straightened up. Nothing short of the right key or an explosion would get that lock open. He hadn’t really thought it would, but always best to check the simple things.

  “They took everything off you?” Josie called.

  “Of course,” Skrymir replied. “How in Oku’s name did they find out?”

  “A traitor in the ship,” Van Gast said. “Gilda, I’m thinking.”

  “Gilda? That’s my niece,” Haban said. “Don’t think too badly of her. She’s been trying to get me out of here.”

  Van Gast’s answer was drowned out by the rasping sound of the far door—the door to freedom. It was tantalizingly close yet as unobtainable as the moon. Its dark and tempting prospect was not enhanced by Rillen’s appearance, or who he brought with him.

  Four blank-eyed bond-slaves carried a litter padded with soft cushions. The reek of the mage preceded him, a stink that made dark memories swirl in Van Gast’s head and made Josie’s face tighten in hatred and fear. Only for a moment though.

  The slaves placed the litter on the floor and the mage sat, glittering and marvelous, beautiful and malevolent. Van Gast swallowed hard. He had no way now to avoid Rillen’s choice, no time, no crafty plan. Nothing but the choice itself. His hand found Josie’s and squeezed it. For once in his life he was going to keep a promise, despite the fear that made his face clammy and his skin feel like it belonged to someone else, someone a lot smaller than him.

  The next figure shocked him enough he almost forgot the mage.

  “Ilsa?”

  Josie cocked an eyebrow his way. “Someone I should feel jealous of?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly and flashed her a grin, glad to have her here, glad to have something to take his mind and eye away from the bond he saw in Rillen’s hand. “Depends. She’s Holden’s wife. A lot of things suddenly make sense.”

  A bunch of guards followed them down the corridor, all with pistols drawn. Two checked on Skrymir’s cell and stood guard there. Rillen stopped a yard from Van’s cell and the guards came on. In the face of those pistols, Van Gast decided that biding his time might work well. He could probably down two, no problem, but with the guards at Skrymir’s cell, and the others ready to shoot anyone, picking his time was essential, because there was stupid and there was suicidal, and there was probably no way out of this except to do it.

  “Bring Van Gast o
ut,” Rillen snapped. “You two, my lady here wishes to speak with Josie. You shall make sure she survives the encounter. And if she doesn’t, Josie, Van Gast’s last moments will be spent on the floor of this corridor.”

  Rough hands yanked Van Gast’s fingers from Josie’s and pulled him from the cell. Ilsa stepped past him, making sure she didn’t catch his eye. If Ilsa was here, if she was helping Rillen, had told him about Van Gast and Josie and Skrymir, what about Holden? Was he involved too? Had the pair of them turned Van Gast over for the money? No, no it couldn’t be. Holden might bear him no especial fondness, but he wouldn’t turn Josie over, or Skrymir. Would he?

  “So, Van Gast, who is it going to be? You or her?”

  Rillen’s soft words just for him made the thoughts fly from his head. It didn’t matter now who it had been, only how they were going to get out of this. Or, if that wasn’t possible, get Josie out, alive, unbonded, and free like she was supposed to be.

  The bond lay, silver and deadly, in its pouch. The end of it snuffled at him, looking always for flesh to bond, souls to steal, minds to blank. He stared around, looking, hoping for some little thing, anything, to help, but there was nothing. Only him, and a pair of eyes glittering with avarice in crystal caves.

  “Me,” he said. “You can bond me, if you let her and Skrymir go. And Haban.”

  Rillen’s laugh was jagged, as though he was barely controlling himself. “You don’t want much, do you? You’ll do what I ask, play your part. Then, perhaps, I’ll let her go and hang you. It’s that or I hang you both now. And I mean right now.”

  One of the guards brought out a rope and swung it over a rafter. It dangled there menacingly, but not half as threatening as Rillen’s eyes. All Van Gast had left was the stupid, and not at all thrilling. Stupid, but right. Possibly even sensible. Certainly desperate.

  Van Gast held out his wrists. “Do it.”

  “I knew you’d see sense.”

  Rillen opened the pouch further and the bond squirmed out onto Van Gast’s skin, sinking in around the previous scar, settling into his bones, his mind. He dropped to his knees as the pain started, the seemingly endless stretching of his muscles, warping him like a bow as he thrashed against it. He thought he screamed, but couldn’t be sure, couldn’t be sure either that he heard an answering scream, of Josie shouting his name.

  His vision dimmed, became gray and pearled like fog. The hold of it sank into his mind, tried to roll up his memories, impose its own order on him. He fought that the hardest, fought not to forget. Josie’s wicked grin, always meaning trouble for someone, the way she laughed up at him. The feel of her against him, all soft curves and hard muscles, light and dark, furious love and passionate hate. He forgot everything else, who he was, who he had been, things he’d done, but he didn’t forget her. He could never forget her, no matter if he was bonded a thousand times. The sheer, glorious blast of her in his life couldn’t fade. He wouldn’t let it, would kill any man who tried to take it.

  The pain drained away, never quite leaving, lurking in the scar, ready to twist him to its will. He lay shuddering on the flagstones of the corridor, staring up at a rope. He had to fight it, had to, or lose himself. A fragment of memory wafted through his head, of the one time he’d seen Josie cry. Fight it, Andor, you hear me? You fucking well fight it. She’d fought it, almost to the bitterest of ends. She always did and so he would too.

  “Get up,” the mage said behind him.

  The words echoed through the bond, sent silver shivers of pain along his arm, dragged a groan from clenched lips, but he stayed where he was. When he looked at his wrist, black lines snaked away from the bond. Bonded unwilling—the more he fought, the sooner it would kill him. If he gave in, stopped fighting and let the bond make mist of his thoughts, the black poison would fade, along with him and his mind. Somewhere, deep inside, he remembered something of himself. Rules were for idiots.

  “Get up!”

  His muscles twitched to obey, but he forced them still. “Screw you,” he managed to rasp out, and was rewarded with another twist of agony.

  The mage’s voice, soft, insidious, seducing Van Gast to obey. “Bring him.”

  Rillen yanked Van Gast up by the hair and he didn’t have the strength to resist.

  Josie shouted something, but Van Gast couldn’t make out the words. Only the desperation, the fear. He was doing this for her. Because she’d once done this for him, to save him, and he’d thought she was betraying him. His words came out in a mumble. “`S all right, Josie love. Promise.”

  The mage’s face loomed in front of him, the stench gone now that Van Gast was part of it, part of him.

  “I can make this worse,” the mage said. “If you like. With a twist and a pull, I can tighten that bond so you can’t even move without my say so, impossible to fight against. I understand it’s very painful though, and it tends to kill the slave quicker. Though that might seem a mercy. Your choice. Now, I command you. Do as Rillen says, to the letter.”

  Van Gast struggled to think beyond the throb at his wrist, the fog invading his brain. Remember who you are, what you do. Van Gast is the racketeer, the one they all want to beat. The man they can’t catch, who no cell can hold, who can steal like a god. He should bide his time, pretend, lie, live. Wait, and something would come along. Some plan from Josie’s twisty mind, some foolish bravado from Skrymir in the name of his oath, something stupid but utterly thrilling to do to get them all free. He’d think of something—he always did. Besides, he had to survive the now, survive until Josie was free, until they all were.

  Add to that I want to live long enough to kill Rillen.

  “Yes,” he mumbled. “I’ll do what he says.”

  “Good. Very good, very sensible. All right, Rillen. The sooner, the better I think, don’t you?”

  * * *

  Perfect, this is all working out so very perfectly. Rillen could hardly contain himself.

  Ilsa came out of the cell looking like a cat that had swallowed a king. Her smile was almost certainly a mirror to his own. He couldn’t resist the urge. When she came to stand next to him, he swept her up and kissed her, reveled in her. Perfect.

  He set her back and watched her eyes, those little glimpses into her mind. They were very wide now, almost as wide as her smile. “Holden never kisses me like that,” she whispered.

  Rillen nodded to the guards and they yanked Josie, biting and spitting, out of her cell. Another two got hold of Skrymir, set him on wobbly feet. Haban shuffled out after him. The cuffs, the ankle chains the guards added and half a dozen guns pointed at them kept them quiet enough.

  He bent down to whisper in Ilsa’s ear. “Then Holden’s a fool. Stay with me, become my lady, and I will kiss you like that every hour of every day. All Estovan will be ours. And a lot of money too. Everything you wish for will be yours.” He straightened up and raised his voice. “Sergeant, get them going.”

  The guards got them moving, though Josie spat a stream of vile words, tried elbows and knees to get back to Van Gast. In the end, only a pistol jabbed in her face and a threat to use it, right now, got her going.

  “Van Gast, follow them.”

  The bonding had perturbed Rillen, made squirming thoughts riddle his brain. Before, Van Gast had been a preening peacock, a larger-than-life force, full of energy that seemed to flow from him in waves. Now he shuffled like an old man, his hands shaking, his eyes hauntingly vacant as though he looked only inward, into a personal demon-infested space. It made Rillen want to look away, to deny he had anything to do with the transformation. He had his revenge, and it sickened him.

  Enough. It would be worth it when all was done.

  Instead of watching Van Gast, he watched Ilsa gloating over Josie’s hurt, at the all-too-apparent fear—and a neat set of scratches—on Josie’s face even as she fought and spat, the tremor as she called to Van Gast and got no answer.

  “Was it all you hoped?” he asked.

  “And more.” Ilsa’s smile was beatific
and spiteful, as though she’d been blessed by gods and demons both. “You gave me all I wished for.”

  “Oh, there’s more to come. Much more.”

  He kissed her again, tongue sliding against tongue, heat rising everywhere, a promise of more to come, of heat, of the passion that her hate was just a symptom of. A promise of a mind that matched his own, clothed in a body that slid smooth and soft under his hand.

  Perfect—today is my perfect day.

  * * *

  Van Gast staggered after Skrymir, his legs jerky and not-quite-his. Some semblance of thoughts had come back to him, but they were insubstantial, floating just out of his reach when he tried to grasp them.

  They didn’t go far before the guards stopped at a stout door ranged with locks. Josie kept up her barrage of insults and elbows until the sergeant lost his patience and smacked her into a wall, holding her face to the stone with her arms pinned under her. It only served to piss her off more, and while the elbows stopped, the insults grew worse. Van Gast watched it all blankly, vaguely knowing that he had to do something, had to get her out of those chains somehow.

  He stared dully at the door, and the rat-itch of his trouble bone flared even worse, wrenching a hoarse gasp from him. Not just trouble, this was worse than that the itch told him as it flared, a scorch, a burn, a hot flaming coal next to his heart. Not just for him, for all of them. It seared through the gray fog of the bond and brought him back to himself.

  Rillen strolled along the corridor, a shark-grin splitting his face, with Ilsa behind him. She looked at Rillen and her mouth softened then, the way she’d once done with Holden or when she’d followed Van Gast around the ship. The burn of little-magics choked at his throat.

  “Unlock the door,” Rillen said, and guards leaped to obey.

  The locks rattled open, one by one, until the stout door stood free. Rillen pushed and it swung inward on silent hinges, to a wealth that boggled even Van Gast’s fuddled mind.

  The guards shoved him, Josie, Skrymir and Haban inside.

  “Oku’s oath,” Skrymir muttered and made an odd sign with a hand in front of his face, as though warding off an evil spirit.