Balen might not be a religious man, but he was a superstitious one, and one of the universal truths he’d always believed was that trouble came in threes. The first, he supposed, had come in the form of the shot of liquor that bastard Benjy had put in front of him the night before, and he felt a fresh wave of pity for Pater, making time as he’d been with Benjy’s sister. There wasn’t any denying that bastard had a mean streak in him, but Balen had figured one drink, what’s the harm? Well, the harm had been that one drink had led to another, then another and before Balen knew it he was sitting under the tavern’s table arguing with his own feet. He still wasn’t sure who’d come out ahead on that one, and he supposed it didn’t matter.
The second trouble was obviously the flyer—plastered all over the city and looking like nothing to Balen so much as a victory flag for that bastard Grinner. The third…well, he thought he knew all too well what the third would be, especially if Thom had caught wind of what was happening. “Hoy, Balen!” Someone yelled, and Balen waved a dismissive hand as he ran—or, at least, did the closest approximation of which his body was now capable—past.
“Not…now,” he wheezed over his shoulder, “can’t you see I’m…busy dying?”
He walked up the ramp to Festa’s ship and froze, all his panicked thoughts leaving his head to be replaced with new panicked thoughts. The captain stood on one side of the deck, his arms crossed across his chest, flanked by four sailors, and gods if that bastard Benjy wasn’t among them, showing no ill-effects of the night before. They were all doing their best to look threatening—and putting on a pretty poor show of it, so far as Balen could see, as they each held the small, curved knives used on ships to cut lines, and those weren’t of any particular danger unless you found yourself being a rope. He tracked their stares to a group of what looked like near a dozen men standing opposite them on the deck, the group weathering the sailors’ attempts at scowls with an idle disregard that said they’d seen worse and weren’t impressed.
And, surprise—or maybe no surprise at all, the gods being possessed of a particularly cruel brand of humor—but the third trouble turned out to be something completely different after all than what Balen had suspected. For there was no denying that the group was trouble, all hard-bitten men that looked like the type that spent their time in dark alleyways, sharpening their blades and making lists of men they wanted to kill.
Balen considered finding something else to do—he thought hiding behind some of the crates on the deck sounded pretty promising—until the strangers decided to leave but reluctantly decided against it. There was Thom to think about, after all, so for possibly the first time in his life, Balen dismissed the survival instinct which had, to that point, if not kept him out of trouble, at least kept him alive, and walked onto the ship to stand beside the captain and the other sailors.
No one so much as glanced in his direction, a thing for which he was incredibly grateful, as they were all too busy listening to Captain Festa talk—which was to say roar, the man did little talking. “—Don’t know what you’re doing here, and I don’t much care. But by the gods, if there’s going to be violence on my ship, I’m going to be the one doing it, is that clear?”
A big man at the front of the other group sighed, rubbing at his head as if embarrassed. “Yeah, sorry about that, Captain. The last thing we want is trouble.” He turned to scowl at a man beside him who was even bigger than he was. “It won’t happen again.”
“Well, he should know that’s not how to treat a lady,” the other man huffed, and there was something strange about his voice which made its way past Balen’s frantic thoughts, but he dismissed it as unimportant.
“Maybe he should and maybe he shouldn’t,” the first man said, sighing heavily, “but we didn’t come here to teach lessons on manners, did we, Beautiful?”
Beautiful. Balen cracked a smile at that. Whatever else the men were, it was clear they enjoyed giving nicknames to their mates as much as the sailors did, and with just as much dubious accuracy, for the man to which the first spoke was anything but beautiful. Strong, sure, if the width of his shoulders and the size of his hands—as large as dinner places—were any indication, but Balen didn’t think there was enough coin in the world to make even the most experienced whore able to say he was beautiful with a straight face.
Balen guessed that the man growing so big, so muscular, was his body’s defense against all the name-calling he must have suffered in his youth. After all, it was hard to make fun of someone for being ugly when their fist was in your mouth, and he suspected the big man had done his fair share of punching over the years. For one, his hands were calloused, his knuckles scarred and red as if he spent his time hitting anything that came…well, to hand. For another, his face itself looked like it had been carved out of stone by some particularly enthusiastic—if not skilled—mason, all hard edges and sharp angles, and when the man bared his teeth in frustration, Balen couldn’t help but notice that he had few enough left to bare. He felt his unease increase, for men generally didn’t get their teeth knocked out by spending their lives being polite, and the smile on his face faltered a bit.
“You want we should fetch him up, Captain?” one of the sailors asked, and Balen wondered what the man was talking about until he realized that the sound he’d been hearing—one he’d taken to be the fluttering of his nervous heart—was actually the unmistakable sound of a man thrashing in the water beside the ship.
“Leave him,” Festa spat. “The bastard could use a bath, and the gods know I’m tired of his mouth myself.”
The sailor nodded and then winced, clearly not wanting to say anything more but deciding he’d best do it. “Thing is, Cap, Fingers ain’t a particularly good swimmer and…” He hesitated as Festa turned to glare at him. “Well, that is…he might drown.”
“You got a point coming soon, sailor?” the captain demanded, and the man swallowed, shaking his head and subsiding into silence.
Festa watched him for a second more, possibly, Balen thought, considering throwing him over the ship to give the thrashing, unfortunate Fingers some company, but finally he turned back to stare at the group of strangers. “Anyway,” he said, looking at the big man with the missing teeth, “I reckon I’m sorry for any disrespect the man gave you, lady, just so long as we understand that throwing my mates overboard is a particularly favorite pastime of mine, and one I don’t intend to share.”
Lady? Balen thought, confused, the smile on his face giving a twitch, and he watched in shock as the big man dropped into a gods forsaken curtsey, trousers and all. “That’s quite alright, Captain,” he said, and Balen realized with a shock what had bothered him about the man’s voice. It was the fact that it wasn’t a man’s voice at all but a woman’s.
“No damn way.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he realized as everyone turned to him that, in his surprise, he hadn’t just said them, but nearly yelled them.
The man—woman, Balen, damnit, she’s a woman—started to scowl, and Balen felt his knees grow weak as he saw the dinner plates attached to her wrists begin to ball into fists. “You got something to add, Balen?” Captain Festa said, and whether the warning in his voice was meant to make Balen aware of the threat from the captain himself or the woman, the first mate couldn’t say.
“N-no, Captain,” Balen said, “I was…that is…I stubbed my toe, is all.” He sketched the best bow he could in the direction of the woman. “It’s a pleasure to meet such a …well, beautiful woman, lady.”
Her scowl abruptly turned into a wide grin that was somehow more frightening than her frown had been, and she curtseyed to him this time. “Thank you, sir, the pleasure is all mine. And may I ask the name of such a fine-mannered gentleman as yourself?”
Balen nearly snorted at the thought of himself as a gentleman, but he managed to force it down as she might misunderstand, and thinking of what those fists of hers could do to his face if she took it in mind to use them provided ample motivation
. A problem averted then, but judging by the look dancing in her eyes, Balen thought there was another one on the way, and he felt as if he’d somehow been pulled into one of the stage plays he’d seen in his youth, only there’d been no women left to play the part of the blushing maid, and the fool who’d been in charge of things had cast a temperamental she-bear instead. “M-my name’s Balen,” he said, all too aware of the fact that the eyes of everyone on the ship were locked on him, “and you’re…Beautiful.”
“Why thank you,” she said, smiling again, and Balen quickly looked away from her gaze, since he’d been told once that, if a man encountered a predator in the wild, he should never make eye contact with it.
“Well, if you two are done,” Festa growled, turning to the big man who was, apparently, the leader of the group, “then maybe you won’t mind telling me why you’re on my ship.”
“No offense, Captain,” came a familiar voice, and Balen was shocked when the swordmaster, Darrell, stepped from where he’d been hidden from view by the woman and the group’s leader, “but I have tried to explain. Urek and the rest of these men—and woman—saved my life. I was still recuperating when we heard of the queen’s decree, and I feared for Thom. Given the fact that you had sent a man to search for me, I didn’t think it would prove a problem if I should show up.”
“Sure, swordmaster,” Festa said, “I sent a man after you, and that’s a fact. What I didn’t know is that you’d be bringin’ some of the city’s most low-down scoundrels with you.” Balen winced at that, glancing at the group to see if today was going to be the day that what luck he had was finally going to run out. But none of them seemed angry, at least. A hook-nosed man in the back was the only one holding a weapon—a cruel dagger that looked sharp enough to cut air—and he was currently using it to trim his fingernails. The big man, Urek, only shrugged, as if the captain had a fair point, and Balen let out an audible sigh of relief, wincing as Festa snapped him a dark look.
“In such times as these,” Darrell said, “a man must find his allies where he may.”
Festa hocked and spat. “True enough, swordmaster. Now, since we’re all done introducing ourselves and tugging on each other’s dicks, why don’t you tell me why you’re cluttering up my ship with all these dirtfeet?” As he finished, he gestured to a skinny youth standing at the back of the group who looked to Balen as if he was about to lose his lunch and then some. “And best be quick about it—that kid there pukes on my deck you’ve my word you’ll all spend the rest of the day swabbing it until I can see my reflection.”
“I came to check on Thom,” Darrell said. “Once I heard the news…I thought he might do something rash.”
“And I don’t figure you’d be far wrong,” the captain said, “about that at least. Thing is, Thom ain’t heard nothin’ of the kind, not yet.”
Darrell frowned, clearly confused. “But how could he not? Why, there are so many flyers posted throughout the city, not to mention the queen’s criers going around yelling it at the top of their lungs—we passed several such on the way here—that a man would have to be blind and deaf to miss it.”
Festa barked a laugh. “Sure, blind and deaf or, as is the case here, locked in his cabin below decks.”
The look of surprise that came over the swordmaster’s face was no doubt a mirror to Balen’s own, but the big man, Urek, only bellowed out a laugh that Balen thought would be what it sounded like if the clouds decided to rain stones. “I fancy,” the captain continued, grinning and obviously pleased by the reaction his words had caused, “that if you listen closely enough, you can hear him shouting to be let out even now.”
Once the captain mentioned it, Balen realized that he had heard someone yelling, screaming to be freed, but he supposed he’d chalked it up only to his own inner, terrified self when he’d walked onto the boat.
“Though,” Festa went on grudgingly, “we will have to open the door sooner or later—Thom’ll need to be fed, and the gods know his skinny ass ain’t got much fat to spare. Once that happens, I suspect we could measure in seconds how long it takes him to learn of it, considerin’ that some of my sailors wag their tongues more than a couple of old hags sittin’ around knitting sweaters and talking about how things used to be different.” He glanced between Darrell and the big man, Urek. “So, what’s the plan, swordmaster?”
The older man winced. “I had hoped you might have one.”
“Hoped?” Festa said, grunting. “Hope ain’t got no business in plannin’, swordmaster. Hope is what a man does when the plan fails. Still, I suppose I ought to thank you for bringing these others with you—if things go the way I think they will, I reckon that fella there’ll be needin’ that blade of his for more than for pickin’ his teeth and looking ornery. Not a habit I’d recommend, anyway. The gods know there’s enough ways for a fool to die in this world without cutting his own throat trying to look scary.”
Urek turned and scowled back at the man with the blade who gave a sheepish look before sliding the knife back into the sheath at his side. “Well then,” the big man said, grinning as he stepped forward and offered Festa his hand. “From one soon to be dead fool to another, Captain, I’m glad to have you on our side.”
Festa grunted, “I’ll say the same back to you, stranger, but don’t be offended if’n I keep my purse locked away from here on out.”
Urek laughed again, his thick chest shaking with mirth. “Oh, I wouldn’t have it any other way, Captain. If it was too easy, it’d take all the fun out of the thing. Now,” he said, clapping Festa on the back, “why don’t we go work on this plan of yours and figure out how we’re all going to be meetin’ the God of Death.” Either the captain didn’t feel the stranger’s hand for all the furs stacked on his thick frame, or he’d taken a liking to the man, for he didn’t explode into violence as Balen had expected, but only nodded and led the men below decks.
“Oh, relax, you old bastard!” he heard Festa bellow from down below a moment later, presumably at Thom. “Get some rest—you been lookin’ like death on a bad day, at any rate!”
Balen couldn’t make out the first mate’s reply, but he was barely listening. He was busy replaying the conversation in his mind and doing his best to avoid the appraising eyes of the woman, Beautiful. “Gods,” he muttered under his breath, “we’re all gonna die.”
One of the sailors standing beside him must have heard, for he laughed, giving Balen a nudge with his elbow that made Balen want to kick him in the stones. “Judgin’ by the way that woman over there’s lookin’ at you, Blunderfoot, I’d say you’ll be beatin’ us all to Salen’s Fields.”
“Except maybe you, if you keep runnin’ your mouth,” Balen snapped, but the man had clearly received worse threats from more threatening men—he worked on Festa’s ship, after all—and he only grinned as he walked off to get back to his duties.
“Bastard,” Balen muttered, but his heart wasn’t in it. It didn’t matter much which of them won the race to Salen’s Fields, if race it was. Unless Festa, Darrell, and Urek came up with some miraculous plan, they’d all be getting there soon enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
May stared at the chunk of stale bread that would be her dinner, or, she supposed, breakfast—in the darkness of her windowless cell such things had lost their meaning—trying to decide which mouthful might have the least amount of mold. In the past days, she had spent much of her time shocked that she had been reduced to such a state, swallowing each piece of bread and struggling to keep it down as she lamented the woman of power—envied by so many in the Downs—that she had once been.
That fiery-haired woman seemed an utter stranger now, not even one that she had ever met, only perhaps that she’d heard stories about. Certainly, such a woman had more pressing concerns, more important decisions to make than which side of bread held the least mold and, therefore, was less likely to make her violently sick. Still, for her, it was not a decision to make lightly—she had done so before, and had understood the foolishness
of it as she sat huddled in the corner of her cell, spewing the contents of her stomach up in a foul flood. It was not a mistake she would make again, so she ate slowly, methodically, and without relish.
“How you doin’, lass?”
The voice came from the cell across from her. She recognized it, but it still sounded strange and alien to her ears. This was a man the fiery-haired woman had known, and he had no business with what she had become. She did not answer him, had not answered for some time now when he asked similar questions. In the end, there was no point. Talking would not unlock the cell door, would not turn the moldy bread into a feast, nor allow her to forget what she had become. Talking, interacting with another person, would only make it worse, only make her remember all that she had been, all that she had lost.
So she remained silent and, after a time, the voice gave up its questions, as it always did, and there was only the darkness, only the suffocating, yet somehow comforting silence. She heard the sound of the dungeon door opening, and her eyes went wide, her heart thundering in her chest. She knew that sound, and it—along with the torchlight that accompanied it—at once sent fear and longing rushing through her. For the sound and the dull, ruddy orange light brought food, yet it also brought pain, and so she hesitated, tentatively leaning toward the bars of her cell then back again until she finally lost her nerve and skittered into the corner, her eyes wide and wild as she waited to see what would come.
The torch-light grew closer, bobbing in the grip of whoever held it aloft, and as it did her heart beat harder in her chest until it felt as if it would surely burst free. A man peered inside, and at first she didn’t recognize him, for she had been sure it would be either one of the few guards—she knew their faces well now—who brought her food or, if she was unlucky, Grinner himself. This man was neither of those, though, and he rubbed at the salt and pepper stubble on his chin furiously as if barely able to contain some unknown but powerful frustration. “May?” he said, narrowing his eyes as if having a problem seeing her. As well he should—she’d chosen the corner for a reason, had crawled into it often when she’d heard the dungeon door open in the hopes—always vain—that Grinner, when he came, would forget about her if he didn’t see her.
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