I eyed that other, empty chair, my mouth gone chalk dry. It seemed very much like I was being put on trial right there along with NaVarre. Why would there be two chairs, side by side, if they weren't meant for two persons accused of the same thing? Part of me wanted to whip right back around and run from what was coming, but there wasn't any outrunning this. I hadn't wanted any of this to happen, but it had, and my ignorance didn't lessen the fact that some of it was my fault.
I lifted my chin, and made my leaden feet carry me to the chair next to NaVarre's. I sat down, my knees buckling as if I had been shoved into the seat by the weight of some gigantic, invisible hand. I was still deciding if defending myself would be worth the effort when Arramy finished rummaging in the chest on the table and came up with a large leather-bound notebook.
NaVarre inhaled slightly. If I hadn't been sitting so close, I might have missed the flicker of uncertainty in his face as Arramy began leafing through that notebook, but perhaps I was only imagining things. The next second, an arrogant, unconcerned sneer tugged at NaVarre's sensually beautiful mouth.
"You both claim not to know each other," Arramy said. Calmly, as if we were all gathered in front of the High Court, and he was the magistrate examining a witness. "You've never met before Miss Warring was brought aboard the Angpixen."
I stared at him.
"Is that true?" he asked, his gaze flicking to me.
I nodded slowly, my voice scratching in my throat as I got out a rough, "Yes," but Arramy wasn't paying any attention. He was studying NaVarre.
"Of course," NaVarre smiled. Silky smooth.
Arramy pursed his lips and held up the notebook, flipping pages till he found the one he was looking for. "Discussed intriguing investment opportunity with Warring, accepted invitation to attend W.'s Maiden's Fest Gala in Garding.'" Arramy stopped reading aloud and glanced at the monogramed cover of the notebook. "For your information, Miss Warring, this is the personal diary of one Lexan Rammage, more famously known as Lord Braeton, the Sixth Earl of Anwythe," he said, then went back to reading, picking up where he left off, "'More information needed, but feel confident further communication will result in profitable agreement for all sides... Spoke with A. concerning imports. Met with F. -'..." he closed the notebook, sat on the edge of the table, tilted his head back, and mused aloud, "Now... Something has been bothering me since my source found this in your room in Porte De Darre."
It was almost imperceptible, but NaVarre's shoulders stiffened.
I squinted, still trying to piece together what I had just heard. It wasn't working. I hadn't thought about the Maiden's Fest Gala since we left Garding. It had been shortly before the fire, and then afterward it just hadn't seemed all that important. Father had insisted that it be a full-costume Whimsy, though...which now seemed awfully suspicious.
I was still mulling over all of that when Arramy raised the notebook again, brandishing it by one corner. "I thought there was nothing of any value in here. It appears to be the ramblings of a man with more money than brains, and at first, I thought my source must have gotten the wrong room. The boy is a decent burglar, but a little young. Maybe Lord Braeton had rented that suite before you did, and his social journal was left behind by accident. But..." he rotated the notebook slowly, considering it as he spoke, "Then along came Miss Warring, and all of this became very interesting."
NaVarre's breathing began to quicken. His hands flexed on the arms of his chair. "She doesn't know anything," he said again, and I felt a small twinge of gratitude. The gratitude promptly died when he continued with, "She's barely out of finishing school. Hardly the type to be hanging about with pirates. Or lords, for that matter."
The captain's eyes blazed silver as he leaned forward. "But Lord Braeton spoke with Warring." His voice had gone ominously quiet. "This journal – his journal – wound up in your hotel room. The same room my man trailed Bloody NaVarre to and from for two weeks. Then Warring's daughter turns up and says that Bloody NaVarre was extremely interested in a bag that belonged to her father, and now I have to wonder... what if it wasn't a mistake? What if the reason this diary was in your room was that it belongs to you? What if the Earl of Anwythe and Bloody NaVarre are one and the same, and this entry describes Bloody NaVarre talking to Warring?"
A frigid ripple of understanding washed through me. I sat up a little straighter, much more awake.
NaVarre had gone pale, but managed to get out a short, incredulous laugh. "This? This is what you..." he paused, his brow wrinkling in consternation. "You do realize this is all circumstantial evidence. You can't actually use any of it in court."
Arramy sat back. "What makes you think I'm going to?" he asked.
I doubted that many people had the ability to rattle the Bloody Red Fox, but Captain Arramy was managing nicely. Perhaps it was the fact that Arramy had already outsmarted him once. Or perhaps there really was something important in that notebook, and Arramy had figured out what it was.
Either way, perspiration was beginning to sheen NaVarre's forehead, even though he kept his expression cool. "What is this about, then, Captain?"
"People have died," Arramy said simply. He leaned back a little, surveying the items beside him on the table, then selected one, lifting a familiar sheet of grey-green paper to the light. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding one of the shipping manifests out so NaVarre could get a look at it.
NaVarre glared past the paper at Arramy, then, when Arramy kept it there in front of his face, he heaved a sigh and squinted at it. Once. Then again, and this time he frowned, focusing long enough to read it. "It appears to be a manifest," he said tersely. If he recognized the name of the ship in question, he didn't show it.
Arramy raised an eyebrow. "What shipping company claimed this manifest?"
"Warring Oceanic," NaVarre admitted. "Alright. I understand the connection to the lovely Miss Warring, here, but I'm not sure what any of this has to do with —”
"I retook that ship from a fast-cutter captain who used to run your colors," Arramy said.
NaVarre shrugged, slouching as nonchalantly into his chair as the ropes binding him to it would allow. "What can I say? The man was doing what he got his share of the haul for. I can only assume he found other prey as soon as you sailed back to Lordstown to submit your paperwork."
"There were military grade weapons hidden in the cargo of this particular freighter." Arramy paused, his keen eyes taking note of NaVarre's sudden stillness. "Funny thing about that paperwork... I put in a detailed report of what I found on the Persephyrre, but nothing came of it. I was handed new orders to pursue the Bloody Red Fox, and Miss Warring was allowed to file a loss on the entire cargo. There was no inquest. Warring Oceanic kept right on operating, and enough armor piercing incendiaries to sink an armada disappeared into thin air. So I'll ask you again: how do you know Warring?"
NaVarre's stare never wavered, although his eyes widened at the implication of what Arramy was saying. "I had no idea there were weapons hidden in that cargo," he said slowly, his voice low and intense. "Believe me."
Arramy watched him silently, waiting.
NaVarre's pulse was throbbing in his neck. After a moment he blinked, then looked down, nodding, a bitter smile breaking across his face. "I see. You need someone to pin this on." He let loose a dry chuckle. "Who better than Bloody NaVarre? No jury in their right mind would suspect the flawless Captain Arramy if Bloody NaVarre is up there —”
I couldn't stand much more. "Oh, just stop," I rasped. "This isn't even about you. This is about my father. We were running because someone was trying to kill him. They... They may have succeeded. I don't know."
NaVarre stared straight ahead, lips set in an almost petulant expression.
Sitting forward, I tried to meet his eyes. "But I know you know something. I saw you. You were looking for that binder. You knew it would be there to find, so this whole 'I know nothing' act doesn't work on me. My father may be dead because he was part of this, and now we're all l
iterally in the same boat, so just... Tell me what's going on. Please."
Arramy shifted his weight, a floorboard creaking under his big boots. I refused to find out what he thought of my interruption, and kept my attention trained on NaVarre.
NaVarre was lost in thought, his gaze on the notebook where it lay on the table next to Arramy's hip. I could swear there were gears and cogs whirring in his brain.
What was there to think about? Why was he taking so long? Unless he was coming up with another lie. I was about to jump up and have at him, thoroughly prepared to choke answers out of those perfect lips, when he dragged in another deep breath, his shoulders slumping. That bitter smile broke through once more on a short laugh.
"Fine," he announced, loud and brash. "I'll admit it. You caught me. I am Lexan Rammage, Lord Braeton, Earl of Anwythe —” he stopped speaking, gritted his teeth on a muffled expletive, then leveled a smoldering glare at Arramy. "I swear, if you so much as breathe a word of this, I will bring the full weight of my family's considerable political power crashing down on you and your pathetically tiny family. 141 Eastwynd, wasn't it? Quaint little flat on the quay. Lovely place for the infirm, really. Oh," he arched an eyebrow. "Did you think you were the only one who could dig up information?"
The captain didn't respond at first, simply leveling that frigid gaze on NaVarre's face, letting NaVarre's threat stretch till it was thin and flimsy as wet tissue paper. Then he looked away, the detached expression on his face somehow far more frightening than all of NaVarre's fury. "Don't make me keep asking the same question. If you don't tell me what you know, I will take you back to Wychending along with all of your men, and I will turn in this journal and every shred of evidence I can get my hands on, and let the courts handle the rest."
NaVarre froze. A muscle ticked in his cheek. "What do you mean, 'my men'?"
24. The Devil's Pact
26th of Uirra, Continued
"My crew were to be hanged yesterday morning..." NaVarre's words trailed off when Arramy aimed a dark glare at him. "You got them out of Wychending," NaVarre murmured, then frowned. "Why would you do that?"
"I had a feeling they would come in handy."
"Prove it," NaVarre said abruptly, sitting back in his chair. "Prove that all my men are here, and that you haven't mistreated them."
Without a word, Arramy pushed himself off the table, went striding over to the door and yanked it open.
NaVarre's First Mate came stumbling into the room as though someone outside had given him a bit of a shove. He had no hat, and his coat was dirty, but he didn't appear to be any the worse for wear as he came to a halt, saw NaVarre, and went bug-eyed. "Sir!" he cried in Illyrian, "I thought ya were dead when they dragged y'off... Are ya well, sir? They're not treatin' ya poor, are they?"
Arramy planted one large hand on Finch's shoulder, bringing him up short several feet shy of reaching NaVarre.
Finch glowered and yanked his coat out of Arramy's grip, but didn't approach any further, turning to ask quietly, "Captain? Are ya well?"
NaVarre was sitting perfectly still, eyes wide. It seemed the great, heartless Bloody Fox had a soft spot after all. He swallowed hard before answering, his voice throaty, "I am well. How many men are with you?"
"All but young Uiri, sir. The lad could'na bear the thought o' bein' tortured. Slit 'is wrists wi' 'is own shackles when we got ta Wychending."
"Ah." NaVarre bowed his head a fraction. "That's a pity. He was a fine lad... And the rest?"
"I've kept 'em fightin' fit, sir," the First Mate said, pride making him stand a little taller. "An'... we're waitin' your orders."
The sly way he said it made me glance at Arramy. Not many mainlanders spoke Illyrian. Did he? It didn't matter, though, because Arramy brought an end to the conversation, forcibly wheeling the First Mate around by the back of his collar, propelling him toward the door and delivering him to whoever was standing watch out in the Bridge.
Silence descended as Arramy returned to lean against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest, mouth set in a firm line.
NaVarre's swagger evaporated when the door closed behind the First Mate, and he looked so relieved I thought he might actually weep. Then he pulled his bravado back on like a mask. "If I tell you what you want to know," he said in Altyran, "Will you release them and allow them to leave on the Angpixen unharmed?"
Arramy's jaw tensed, but he nodded. Once.
NaVarre studied the captain for a beat longer, but Arramy didn't falter. "This is insane..." NaVarre muttered. "I have gone... insane..." Then he closed his eyes, a mirthless smile curling the corners of his mouth. "Alright. You've got yourself a deal, Captain."
"What's your connection to Arrix Warring's operation?" Arramy asked, blunt as a rock.
That made NaVarre burst out laughing. "See, you don't even know what questions to ask. You think this is about a smuggling ring?" His laughter died and he shook his head. "We weren't smuggling anything. We were intercepting slave shipments. That's what we thought we would find on the Persephyrre. Warring gave the signal and I —"
Arramy raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with doubt. "Slave shipments."
"Yes!" NaVarre sparked. "Slave shipments. As in, the illegal shipment of persons who do not wish to be shipped by persons who have paid money to purchase said shipped persons."
"I know what slaves are," Arramy said flatly. "Where were these slave shipments coming from if not from Warring?"
I could only stare at the two of them by turns, hardly believing what NaVarre was saying even though I had begged to be told.
NaVarre kept going, unraveling my life. "Have you ever heard of the Coventry?"
Arramy's expression didn't change.
"I'll take that as a no... I'm not surprised. The Coventry is what we in the underground call the entity responsible for hiring the Corpsehundes..." NaVarre paused, eyeing Arramy for any sign of recognition. Arramy blinked, and NaVarre continued slowly, "The Corpsehundes... to go through slum districts and work camps and ghettos, taking people who won't be missed. The Coventry also purchases slaves on the dark market using dummy buyers. These people are rich like you wouldn't believe, and their reach is limitless. I've been trying to find a way in, both as Braeton and NaVarre, but all I was ever able to do was scratch the surface until Lendas Obyrr —"
"Let me get this straight," Arramy broke in, making me jump. "You expect me to believe that a royal pirate is paying an awful lot of attention to a bunch of kidnapped street people," he said, eyebrows lowering, "but not that you're a pirate profiteering off a smuggling scheme."
NaVarre turned to me. "Do you hear an echo? I could swear there's an echo... May I continue, Captain," he asked, swinging back to give Arramy a fiendish grin, "or is there something else you would like to repeat?"
"What were you going to say?" I demanded, interrupting. My skin was prickling, ice creeping between my shoulder blades. "It wasn't until Lendas Obyrron what?"
NaVarre simply looked at me.
"Who was Lendas Obyrron?" Arramy asked quietly, addressing me directly for the first time.
"He was one of our captains." He was waiting for more. My little show of boldness evaporated under those chilly eyes, and I ducked. "He was also my father's good friend... I thought of him as an unofficial uncle. He..." My voice trailed off and I swallowed, remembering a wild mane of dark salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a pile of tiny braids. And peppermint hearts. He had always kept peppermint hearts in the breast pocket of his leather vest just for me.
I picked at a thread-thin patch in the worn fabric of my skirt. "He died last summer, a few months before I finished at University." I paused again, but Arramy was still watching me. I was going to have to fix that spot on my skirt. I could see straight through to the dingy white of my petticoats.
"He disappeared for weeks," I went on, carefully lining up the strings spanning the thin spot. "He had asked for leave, so we didn't think anything was wrong, but then he didn't show up for his nex
t scheduled run. When he didn't show up on wage day either, Father knew something had happened. He alerted the authorities, started organizing a search... Then Len was found in a canal in Porte D' Exalle. The official report was that he had jumped off the Standing Rocks bridge and washed down the river to the pier, but Father didn't believe it. He begged the magistrates for an independent examinary, but they had already burned the body. There wasn't anything more we could do."
I closed my eyes, trying to make myself think. "But... you're saying Len was... m-murdered. Because of these shipments?" My voice wavered, the taste of those words bitter on my tongue.
NaVarre's answer was a simple, "Yes."
"So... What was he doing...?"
"One of my men started bribing him for information." I winced, and he noticed. "Are you sure you want to hear this? It's not pretty."
I cast a sharp glance at him.
He relented with a reluctant shake of his head. "No disrespect meant, but Obyrron wasn't above earning quick money. That's how it started. A word here, a wink there. As long as there was a sizable purse involved, his information was good. Then something happened. He said he had seen something he shouldn't have, and that he was going to lay low for a while. That was the last I heard from him. I thought I was going to have to start over again, groom another contact, when your father put an advertisement in the Dailies with Obyrron's coded message."
"I was suspicious, at first," Navarre went on. "But the information proved good again. We saved twenty girls on that raid. A month later I was dancing the brillardine in your ballroom so I would have a legitimate excuse for being seen at your father's shipyard."
The absurd urge to laugh rose in my chest as a quicksilver memory tugged at me, little more than the fleeting confusion caused by a well-dressed and mysteriously 'extra' Raven who stole a gavant with Yranne Andervall, but my chuckle strangled in my throat. I was still grieving Uncle Len when Father suggested I plan that party. I had thought it was Father's way of keeping my mind off things, but all along it had been an elaborate ruse. My father had used me to set up the entire thing. I had been an accessory, and I hadn't had a clue. Even then.
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