“Treganne, in my opinion, interrupting Ezri at the moment would be an insufferable intrusion. The quartermaster’s compartment across the passage is open. Fetch the carpenter to give Zek temporary accommodations, and pitch your hammock in Gwillem’s space.”
“I shall remember this indignity, Drakasha—”
“Yes, for approximately ten minutes, until some new vexation arises to claim your full attention.”
“Should Delmastro do herself some injury through her exertions,” said Treganne primly, “she may find another physiker to serve her needs. And I daresay that she may use her own abdomen to spin silk for her bandages—”
“I’m sure Ezri’s abdomen is otherwise occupied, Scholar. Please find someone to build that thing a home for the night. You won’t need to say much to convince them of your urgency.”
As Treganne stomped off in a huff with her delicate and timid creature waving its legs in protest, Locke turned back to Zamira with one eyebrow raised.
“Where did you ever—”
“The punishment for insolence to the Nicoran royal family is to be hung out to starve in an iron cage. We were in Nicora doing a bit of smuggling; Treganne was hanging there doing a bit of dying. Most of the time I don’t regret cutting her down.”
“Well. What do you say to my—”
“Mad proposal?”
“Zamira, I don’t need you to sail into Tal Verrar harbor. Just give me something to buy another few months of Stragos’ indulgence. Sack a ship or two near Tal Verrar. Quick and easy work. You know Jerome and I will be the first over the side for you. Just…let them run for the city and spread a bit of panic. Then send us in one night by boat, let us do our business, and we’ll be back with a better idea of how to turn the situation—”
“Attack ships flying the Verrari flag, then get close enough to the city to let you slip in by boat? Wait at anchor with a five thousand solari bounty on my head—”
“Now that is an injustice, Zamira, whatever else I’ve done to merit suspicion. If Jerome and I merely wanted to slip back to Tal Verrar, why would we have risked our necks in your attack this morning? And if I wanted to continue deceiving you or spying on you, why didn’t I just play along with your conclusion that we were agents of the Priori?
“Jerome and I quarreled this morning. If you spoke to Jabril before you pulled me out of your hold, you must know that I’m a divine of the Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden. You’re…our people, more or less. Our kind. It’s a matter of propriety. Jerome insisted that we tell you the truth, that we needed you as willing allies and not as dupes. I’m ashamed to say that I was too angry to agree. But he was right, and it’s not just fucking sentiment, it’s hard truth. I don’t think Jerome and I can pull this off unless you aid us with full knowledge of what we’re up to. And if you can’t or won’t do that, I think you’ve got a hell of a mess coming your way. Soon.”
Drakasha settled her right hand on the pommel of one of her sabers and closed her eyes, looking tired and vexed.
“Before anything else,” she said at last, “apart from all other considerations, we need to put in at Port Prodigal. I have cargo to sell, stores to buy, a prize to dispose of, and crew to meet up with. We’re several days out, and will be several days there. I will think on what you’ve said. One way or another, I’ll give you an answer after we’ve done our business there.”
“Thank you.”
“So it’s Leocanto, then?”
“Just keep calling me Ravelle,” said Locke. “Easier for everyone.”
“So be it. You’re on the Merry Watch and you won’t be shifted back to duty watches until tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you make good use of the night.”
“Well.” Locke glanced down at his leather cup of blue wine, suddenly thinking that maybe he could do with a few more, and perhaps a dice game to lose himself in for a few hours. “If the gods are kind I already have. Good night, Captain Drakasha.”
He left her alone at the taffrail, silently studying the monster that lurked in the Orchid ’s wake.
8
“DID THAT hurt?” whispered Ezri, tracing a finger across the sweat-slick skin above Jean’s ribs.
“Did it hurt? Gods above, woman, no, that was—”
“I don’t mean that.” She gave him a firm poke in the scar that arced across his abdomen beneath his right breast. “That.”
“Oh, that. No, it was wonderful. Someone came after me with a pair of Thieves’ Teeth. Felt like a warm breeze on a fine spring day. I loved every second of—oof!”
“Ass!”
“Where did you get such sharp elbows? You grind those things against a whetstone, or—oof!”
Ezri lay on top of Jean on the demi-silk hammock that took up most of the space in her compartment. It was just barely long enough for him to lie with one arm above his head (brushing the interior bulkhead of the ship’s starboard side), and he could have spanned its width between his outstretched arms. An alchemical trinket the size of a coin provided a faint silver light. Ezri’s witchwood-dark curls were touched with fey highlights; scattered strands gleamed like threads of spider silk in moonlight. He ran his hands through that damp forest of hair, massaged her warm scalp with his fingernails, and she let her muscles go slack with a gratifying moan of relaxation.
The motionless air in the compartment was thick with sweat and the trapped heat of their first endless, frantic hour together. The place was also, Jean noticed for the first time, utterly wrecked. Their clothes were scattered in purest chaos. Ezri’s weapons and few possessions littered the deck like navigational hazards. A small net containing a few books and scrolls hung from a ceiling beam and tilted toward the compartment door, indicating that the whole ship was heeled over to larboard.
“Ezri,” he muttered, staring at the stiffened canvas partition that formed their left-hand “wall.” A pair of large feet and a pair of small feet had given it a serious denting. “Ezri, whose cabin did we nearly kick our way into a little while ago?”
“Oh…Scholar Treganne’s. Who told you to stop doing that to my hair? Oh, much better.”
“Will she be pissed off?”
“More so than usual?” Ezri yawned and shrugged. “She’s free to find a lover of her own and kick it back whenever she pleases. I’m too preoccupied to be diplomatic.” She kissed Jean’s neck, and he shivered. “Besides. Night hasn’t nearly run its course yet. We may yet kick the whole damn thing down if I have my way, Jerome.”
“Then it’s your way we’ll have,” said Jean, gently shifting the weight of her body until they were lying on their sides, face-to-face. He ran his hands as carefully as he could over the stiff bandages on her upper arms, the only thing she couldn’t in good sense take off. His hands moved to her cheeks, and then to her hair. They kissed for the sort of endless moment that only exists between lovers whose lips are still new territory to each other.
“Jerome,” she whispered.
“No. Do something for me, Ezri. In private. Never call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Call me my real name.” He kissed her neck, put his lips to one of her ears, and whispered into it.
“Jean…,” she repeated.
“Gods, yes. Say that again.”
“Jean Estevan Tannen. I like that.”
“Yours and yours alone,” Jean whispered.
“Something in return,” she said. “Ezriane Dastiri de la Mastron. Dame Ezriane of the House of Mastron. Nicora.”
“Really? You have an estate or something?”
“Doubt it. Spare daughters who run away from home don’t tend to receive holdings.” She kissed him again, then ruffled his beard with her fingertips. “In fact, with the letter I left Mother and Father, I’m sure I was disinherited at the best possible speed.”
“Gods. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She moved her fingers down to his chest. “These things happen. You keep moving. You find things here and there that help you forget.”
“You do indeed,” he whispered, and then they were too busy to talk for a good long while.