Ten Ruby Trick

by Julia Knight

  Josie hadn’t cared that he was Remorian, couldn’t give a spit what anyone else thought about it. Her choice and she’d made it, as he wasn’t free to make his. Two years they’d loved and met every chance they could. Then he’d been made up to first captain, then commander. That first promotion, the tightening of his bond and duty, had ended everything, rolled up all his memories like a pig’s tail so he could no longer quite see them. He no longer had the relative freedom he’d taken advantage of then. That tightening had drowned Holden in what he must do, say, think, for the Master. He’d forgotten Josie, hadn’t turned up for that last meeting, hadn’t even recalled there was a meeting, or her. She’d become a lost and distant call across insubstantial dreams.

  Just seeing her had woken the sleeping part of him, the dreams he’d not remembered dreaming. Swoops and swirls and possibilities. The dreams, ones of freedom, of making his own choices. Just dreams, he knew that as his younger self hadn’t. He was bound too tightly, had been for too long. If he were freed of it he wouldn’t know where to start, what to do, what to think. He laid his head on the cool stone wall by the window and stared blindly at the silver track of the moon on the waves. Knowing it was futile didn’t stop the dreams, but only made them worse.

  He looked down at the sleeping port, at the little houses all alike built up the hill, the narrow streets dark now. Order out of chaos, he’d thought it. A calming sensation when he returned home, a soothing sereneness that refreshed him. Only now it looked different, or maybe he was different. The little houses brooded under the moon, holding secrets from him. Not calmness—numbness. A city full of drones, buzzing round in blind adherence, dancing their little dances and pretending the steps were of their own making. And at the center not a queen, a monstrous, glittering king, directing every drone, pulling every string.

  He remembered the dream, of running naked through the market, of startling the drones. Laughing at the freedom of it. Holden had laughed once, when his bond was looser. Josie had taught him how. He’d laughed at something trivial, something insignificant, and that first time had been unable to stop. Yet once free, once that first time had dragged it all out for him to see, the stinking pus of his life that had been before, it had been an effort to stop. Only the bond had stopped it, stopped everything, the tightening of captaincy. Drowned the memory of it under obedience, servitude, duty. And now, now he wanted to swim up from the dark depths of that drowning and see the sun again, but the deeps were too cold to swim up through all at once. A stroke at a time was all he could manage, if the weight of his bond didn’t hold him to the seabed.

  A soft sound behind him made him jump and roused Ilsa. The damned cat, a present from the Master to them. A home shouldn’t be without a cat, he’d said. A huge silver-grey thing with piercing green eyes. It gave Holden the shivers. Even the cat had a bond-scar, made to mouse and purr and curl on a lap, made obedient, unnatural.

  Ilsa lifted the cat off the covers and came over to Holden. She’d be so pretty if it weren’t for the look, the blankness in her eyes. If she weren’t his slave. How could he love someone who was forced to do his bidding, and did it so willingly, so blindly? He couldn’t, even less now he remembered how else it could be. How it should be. A free giving. Everything he’d thought was right and good disappeared before the weight of his memories.

  “Ilsa,” he said on impulse. “Would you like me to take off your bond to me?”

  She dropped the cat, which leaped off with a yowl, and stared at him, her eyes wide and white in the moonlight. She huddled into herself, arms crossed and hands on elbows as though to ward off a sudden chill. “I—your desire is my wish to fulfill, Holden. If you wish to, then you shall.”

  He grabbed her by the arms, too tightly he knew, and she screamed, a pathetic little thing as though she tried to hold it in so as not to offend him. The effort was what offended him, that she thought she had to. He worked to keep his voice level. “No, Ilsa, not what I want. What do you want?”

  “I want what you desire, Holden.” She hunched away from him and shook her head, her blank eyes fixed on the floor. As was proper, like a good slave. Like him before the Master. Was this what he looked like, what he was?

  “Kyr’s mercy, woman! I desire for you to want something, don’t you see? I want you to have a thought of your own in your head. See past the buzzing, past the—the order of your life to what’s beyond. Haven’t you ever wanted something? Haven’t you ever wanted to be free of your bond?”

  She trembled violently in his hands. He’d gone too far; it was too ingrained in her, in him, in all of them. Obedience, blindness, duty. They were all nothing without it, bred to expect it, taught to embrace it and pity those who didn’t see the way. Josie was unsettling him now as she had then, making odd thoughts pop into his head.

  He let Ilsa go and turned back to the window. “I’m sorry, Ilsa. Go back to bed.”

  “It’s dangerous to talk like that,” she whispered, and it was the first time he’d ever heard her voice an opinion on anything, maybe the first time she’d said anything other than “Yes, Holden” or “Your desire is my wish to fulfill, Holden.”

  “It’s my desire to talk like that.” He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice, or the feeling of shame that he was talking to her like this, scaring her, or the contempt he felt, for her bland servitude—and his own unquestioning obedience. And he’d brought Josie here, to this, to be bonded and become another droning slave, quiet and servile. To be made the opposite of everything she was. The thought made him sick to his stomach, and yet at the same time he knew it was right. That order should be kept and made, that the bond was a good thing.

  “But I—”

  He turned back to Ilsa at the tone of her voice. Deathly afraid but trying to master it. He tried a smile, feeling a grudging admiration that she tried and a deep shame that she only tried because she was bonded to obey. “What? Please, it’s my desire to know.”

  “I’m afraid for you if you talk like this, if someone were to find out. I—I wouldn’t want my bond taken off, Holden. I wouldn’t know what to do, what to think. How would I live? Where would I go? I’m lucky I’m bonded to a good, kind man. Please don’t take it off. I’d lose everything I know, I am. I would lose me.”

  She looked so frightened, like one of the mice the cat brought in sometimes, still alive but always fearing the paw it knew would come. He moved toward her and lay her head on his shoulder, put his arms around her. Hoped that he comforted her in the way he wanted comfort and couldn’t find it.

  “I’m not good or kind, Ilsa, not by a long way. I just—” Just what? He didn’t know. The fog in his mind was lifting, shredding, but it was still there. He still knew what his duty was, still couldn’t shake free of the weight of the bond and swim to the surface for air.

  They lay down on the bed and Ilsa slid her arm over his waist, hesitantly, as though he might bite. Sleep would not come. His bond ached and pulsed, told him what his duty was but he couldn’t bring himself to, not to tumble a woman—no, a slave—because he should, because the Master told them to. Not anymore, not now he remembered what it was outside his world, where men and women chose, wanted to be with each other.

  Holden stared at the ceiling for a long while before Ilsa’s quiet voice startled him.

  “Lions.”

  “What?”

  “Something for myself. I heard there’s a place on the mainland where there are cats as big as ponies, shaded the same color as the sand. I always thought they sounded beautiful. I’d like to see lions.”

  He turned to look at her, at the way she gazed up at him as though afraid she’d done something wrong. The bond burned, made his whole arm ache and throb, and the fog was back, directing his mind where it would. This time he didn’t mind as much. Lions. Maybe there was hope for them both, if they could keep their dreams together. The bond took him again, rolled its grey fog over his wants and dreams and remembrances. He smiled at her reassuringly, kissed her and pulled the
covers over them.

  Van Gast slid down the rigging and landed lightly on the deck. A stiff breeze to fill his sails, a clear sky, endless possibilities and a rendezvous not too far over the horizon. No one chasing him either, and only the itch to bother him. Even that had faded to a low-grade niggle that was easily ignored, especially when he’d found no cause for it over the last weeks, though he took care not to look at the toys in their sack. Something about them made shivers run up his spine. He whistled the tune to a lewd sea shanty and sauntered along the deck to his quarters.

  Guld, Gast’s Ghost’s true-mage, sat in a chair waiting for him, his broad face pensive. Van Gast frowned at him, not wanting any of his crew to intrude on his good humor. Guld swallowed nervously but waited for Van Gast to pour himself a generous slosh of brandy. “Any for you?”

  Guld shook his head, his eyes slack and worried. “I, um, well, I’m not sure, but I might have some news.”

  “What sort of news?” Van Gast dropped into the captain’s chair, swung it round and savored a mouthful of the very fine brandy he’d “acquired” only yesterday.

  “Well, firstly it’s good. I think. Anyway, I can’t find any hint of anyone chasing us, anyone asking for you. If anyone’s looking for you, they’re being very quiet about it.”

  There’d been no more trouble since Estovan. Maybe Quint was right and whoever it was had given up. Unlikely, but possible. If it were the Yelen, then more than possible. Their power only ruled in their own waters. They were weaker outside of them, though trade links could get them a lot. But to the Yelen, denying him the ability to berth there, denying him the richest trade port on this coast, might seem punishment enough.

  “That’s definitely good news, Guld.”

  “The rest might not be, I’m not sure. I can’t find Josie.”

  Van Gast clamped his teeth shut and tried to act nonchalant. He’d asked Guld to look for her, find out why she’d missed her berth with Brandick. He hadn’t said why he was interested. “And?”

  “Well, it’s the talk of the waves. No one’s seen her in weeks.”

  Van Gast sniffed at the brandy to cover his surprise and all his good humor evaporated. “Go on.”

  Guld fidgeted in his seat. “No one, at all. The mage’s spells are alight with it. One day she was there, sailing north up near the Archipelago, to Tarana, for some trade deal. Next thing, she’s disappeared.”

  Van Gast choked on his brandy and the sudden flare in his chest. She’d missed a trade—and now this. Not like her, not like her at all.

  “A few weeks is nothing.” Van Gast tried for nonchalant. He was lucky, or not, as the case may be, if he saw any one particular racketeer more often than once every couple of months. “What’s the fuss?”

  “The fuss is first she missed her deal with Brandick. After that she had a deal going down south Dorston way, and she didn’t show. No word, nothing, and there’s more than one unhappy captain out of pocket. Even if she’s off trading, or scamming or whatever, someone should have seen her or heard tell of her, of a ship sunk or boarded, her captured and tried, something. Our spells reach a long way, and we keep in contact, but we can’t contact Josie’s mage. Between us we’ve talked to every racketeer ship for half a thousand miles, more. Nothing.”

  Van Gast got up and brought the bottle of brandy to his desk before he slumped back into the chair and stared out of the window to hide his agitation. “Wouldn’t be the first time that a ship’s gone down and no one knew of it.” Only he didn’t think she was sunk, not his Josie. She had the little-magics to keep a stricken ship afloat a week after it should have drowned in the Deeps with all hands, and her ship’s true-mage was no slouch either. He drained his glass and absently poured another. “Tarana is a bit out of her usual way. She doesn’t like it too far north, too hot. Interesting. Wonder what she was doing there?” Odd, she’d never mentioned it, but then again, why should she? Their trades, their time, were their own usually, unless they had something specific going down.

  “Could be good news for us though,” Guld said and flinched when Van Gast turned his eyes on him. “Um, well, I mean without the competition.”

  Van Gast stared into nothing. Trouble was, his upcoming rendezvous in Dorston was with Josie, though none of his crew knew about his productive little sideline or his nights with her, and he didn’t want them to know. It worked much better that way in such a delicate matter, and everyone thought they knew the two of them loathed each other, competed at every opportunity.

  But a few weeks really was nothing. He’d missed rendezvous before and so had she on occasion. A day late, maybe two. Sometimes it couldn’t be helped. A storm, a trade too good to pass up, an unexpected merchantman all alone in the deeps and begging to be boarded, a twist run overlong. Half the joy of a racketeer’s life was not holding to time, to anything that interfered with what you wanted. She’d catch up with him when she could, and she’d not be more than a few days late. He hoped.

  Yet his little-magic hadn’t stopped itching since he’d seen Brandick, maybe not for him for once, but for her. That was why he couldn’t find the source of it. Trouble somewhere though.

  “Keep an ear out, see what you can find. And see which captains are out of pocket. Might do us some good to trade on their disgruntlement.”

  Guld bobbed his head in agreement and scuttled out of the door like a fat, nervous mouse. Van Gast sat and drank, but no matter the fineness of the brandy, or the amount he drank, his good humor didn’t come back.

  Chapter Nine

  Holden stood before his Master, eyes downcast. Patterns. Black into white into blue into grey into black. Same patterns, same comfort, but it seemed thinner now, less full. The mage-bonds on his left wrist pinched and burned this close to the power that made them, reminding him who owned him, mind, body and soul. An ownership he’d almost sunk into without recall of anything different, until now. The weeks Josie’d been held here, every day made the fog recede, let his dreams further in, brighter, more likely. Harder to live with. Ilsa, after that one brief moment when he’d thought she’d seen, was back to saying “Yes, Holden.” Holden was sure the Master suspected something, had tightened her bond. Made her forget.

  “We’re getting nowhere with the usual methods, Commander. I think we need a more unusual way. One more fitting to her and the immoral ways she lives. Racketeers.” The Master said it as though it was the worst, vilest curse he could think of. “Whores, all of them, and the men the worst.”

  Holden kept his teeth clenched, trying not to think what the usual methods entailed, the purification rituals of the priests. It was necessary, yes. It was. It was right…Half her crew were dead already, the rest half-mad and mage-bonded. But they’d known nothing above what Holden or any other Remorian could hear in any bar or brothel all along the mainland coast. You couldn’t catch Van Gast, too wily to be trapped, his little-magics—something unknown among Remorians—too powerful to let anyone close enough to get him. Good enough with disguises that if he didn’t want you to know who he was, you wouldn’t.

  Only Josie and the boy were left alive and unbonded. Holden hadn’t been allowed anywhere near the cells, near her, left to wonder just what they were doing to her. Kept back, just in case his knowing her could help break her near the end. She was Van Gast’s bitterest enemy, she must know his weakness, at least know where to find him, trap him like a rat. You always knew your best enemies as well as your best friends. Better even.

  “What do you order, Master?”

  “I want you to befriend her, Holden. I want you to get her to tell you where we can find Van Gast and, if necessary, take you to him. Pick her brains on the best way to catch him. A trade, in return for not bonding the boy. She’ll take it, I think.”

  “And her, should I bond her?” Even though it would kill her, because Josie fought everything. Always. To fight the bond was to die slowly, horribly. If the Master said do it, then he would, he had no choice, the bond saw to that. But it would sicken him to hi
s core.

  The Master shut his eyes and considered. “No, not at first. Threaten it certainly, and do it if she becomes unruly. But be careful, Holden. I know very well your past relationship with her, and I overlook it only because it’s useful. Else you’d be where she is now and with less pleasant prospects. Remember that. Maybe you need a reminder of where your duty lies, in case she should try and tempt you.”

  He beckoned Holden forward with one crusted finger. Holden’s arm rose without thought, and he clenched his teeth against the cry when the Master reached into his bond and twisted it with a grunt of satisfaction. Duty loomed large in Holden’s head again, too painful for him to think of anything else. Do your bond, do your Master’s will. Think only of that, of your service to him and your country. This is how you serve them both. Let the fog take everything else.

  “Offer her freedom from bonding, her and the boy, in return for Van Gast. And if you should get me what my heart most desires, then I shall loose you of your latest, more stringent bond.”

  Holden’s heart thudded painfully. To be free of it, to only have the plain bond, the one that kept him to the Archipelago even if it was pulled tight for his commandership. Like the thought of water to a man dying of thirst.

  He said the only thing he could to an order from his Master. “Yes, Master, thank you.”

  Van Gast crept through the dark, humid streets of Dorston, keeping to the shadows. Down away from the main streets, the inns and brothels by the docks, the traders who wanted to sell the little wooden and ivory carvings of the region. Past the butchers who dried the vergu meat that was such a delicacy farther north in Estovan and could only be found here, on the edge of the great jungle that loomed over the town, crept up to the edges like a big cat stalking its prey.

  His heart was tight in his chest as he walked. Guld had been right—no one had seen or heard from Josie in weeks, and rumors of what had happened to her were rife. She was sunk, she’d boarded the wrong ship and been bested, she’d had her throat cut in some dark alley somewhere, she’d been caught by the authorities in Estovan—no, Ruisden—no, Sarigin—been tried and hung for piracy, or was alive in some cell somewhere, alive but better off dead. All the usual sorts of ends for a racketeer. One or two captains had mentioned in whispers that she’d been close to Remorian waters, that maybe she’d fallen victim to the worst thing any of them could imagine—the mage-bond.