Durard leaned forward to peer in and his eyes fairly goggled as he saw what the bag held.
Wu – Kellanved – set down another pouch next to the first.
Durard’s brows rose even higher.
Kellanved then set down the third and leaned back, clasping his hands before his chin. ‘I do hope that this will cover the price.’
Durard’s amazed gaze moved from the bags to Kellanved and back again. He coughed into a fist, stammering, ‘Ah! Well … All three, you say?’
Kellanved nodded.
The captain slammed a hand to the desk. ‘Done! You drive a hard bargain, friend!’ He threw back the rest of his wine and raised the glass. ‘Perhaps another…?’
Dancer almost fell out of his chair. He glared bloody murder at Kellanved. Behind Durard, he mouthed, What the Abyss! and threw open his arms. Throughout the display the Dal Hon kept a stony face. Though seething, Dancer took the captain’s glass. ‘Certainly.’
Durard produced the paperwork from within his jacket. ‘Have you a quill, then, old man?’
Kellanved blinked, uncertain; then realization came to him that it was he who was being addressed as ‘old man’ and he started, then searched about the desk for quill and ink. Finally, after much fumbling and drawer-banging, he produced a set.
‘There you are,’ Durard said, signing. ‘The fine ship the Twisted. Serve you well, she will. Fast into the wind.’
Fast to the bottom, Dancer amended silently. Handing the captain his refilled glass, he reflected that Kellanved, now, was at least being consistent. First he purchases a wreck of a bar; now he purchases a wreck of a ship. The fool was resolutely grinding them into failure and penury.
Durard tossed back the wine and stood, then slipped the lightest pouch into a pocket within his jacket. The others would not fit and so he used the cut ties to hang them over a shoulder, snug down his side. He saluted Kellanved. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, sir.’
Kellanved nodded benignly. ‘All mine, I assure you. My thanks.’
Grinning, Durard sent Dancer a nod of farewell. Dancer showed him out. The fellow obviously left in a far better mood than when he’d entered; he was fairly chuckling. Dancer returned to the office and shut the door. The mage was munching on the cheese and bread. ‘So,’ Dancer began, ‘Kellanved, is it?’
The lad swallowed. ‘Yes – and many thanks.’
‘What’s it supposed to mean?’
Kellanved peered round, uncertain. ‘Mean? It’s just a name. A pseudonym. A veil to hide a thousand crimes; a rallying cry in battle; a curse on our terrified enemies; a—’
Dancer waved him short. ‘I get the idea. But you just made it up!’
Kellanved sniffed. ‘I gave you no such grief over your selection.’
Dancer waved his impatience again. ‘Fine.’ He poured himself a drink. ‘So … you’re determined to bankrupt us by throwing all our funds away.’
Kellanved leaned back, knitted his fingers before his chin. ‘Those shells? Faugh! Useless to us. But the Napans … invaluable. And we must have a ship.’
‘If you can call it that,’ Dancer muttered into his glass.
‘Come, come! These Napans are great sailors. They’ll have it shipshape in no time at all. In two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’
‘Tell them that.’
‘No, you will.’ He slapped his hands together. ‘Now I must prepare for tomorrow.’
Dancer set down the glass. Great – he got to deliver the happy news. ‘Tomorrow then.’
Kellanved nodded absently, his thoughts already elsewhere.
*
Tattersail and Mock were having a private dinner in the hall; until recently such a thing was rather rare, as dinners were usually all-evening affairs where Mock and a raucous group of his select captains and officers would drink, trade stories, drink more, fight drunken duels, make up, and end up singing drinking songs long into the predawn light.
Tattersail would always excuse herself early from these gatherings and retire to their quarters. But even there sleep would be hard to come as the echoes of their laughter and cheers would reach even into the bedchamber.
And so she’d put her foot down with Mock that every so often they would sit together for a civilized meal – just the two of them. And as usual he’d complied, kissing her hand, murmuring, ‘What would he do without his Tattersail?’
This evening, despite definite orders from Tattersail that they were not to be disturbed, a liveried servant pushed open one leaf of the double doors, slid within, and approached. Currently, the livery consisted of bright purple velvet with gold trim, Mock having been very impressed by such a combination flaunted by a visiting foreign dignitary from some backwater in Genabackis lands.
Mock drained his sixth or seventh glass of wine and gave Sail an apologetic shrug, as if to say: Matters of state, my dear. For her part, she wished he didn’t drink so much. Especially as it did his performance no favours in bed.
Mock addressed the servant. ‘Yes?’
The lad extended a tube of horn, sealed with a dollop of bright blue wax. ‘Message from Nap, m’lord. Just arrived by cutter.’
Mock’s brows shot up. ‘Ah!’ He yanked it from the lad and waved him off. He examined the seal, squinting, then showed it to Tattersail. ‘See that? Kings get to do things like that. They have rings for it, you know.’
‘Yes, Mock.’
He broke the seal and drew out a small scroll of fine creamy vellum. Struggling rather, as he was only marginally literate, he read the message it contained. Then he let out a great laugh, slapping the page, and regarded her, winking. ‘There you go! Brother regent he calls me! He proposes a joint raid to seal our pact. A dawn raid on Cawn – at the equinox.’
Sail mentally did the maths. ‘That’s in four – no, five weeks’ time.’
Mock nodded. ‘He’s obviously granting us time to refit and prepare.’
Yes, Sail reflected sourly – the emissary must have seen the sad state of the men-o-war. ‘Do you trust him?’ she asked.
Mock was pouring himself a fresh glass. ‘Trust him? He’s a king! He has to be good to his word. It’s all reputation, you understand.’
‘I understand that,’ she answered, insulted. ‘What I mean is … what if it’s a trick? A ploy to draw you out.’
‘A ploy?’ He lowered the glass from his mouth, regarded her in the manner that irritated her so – as if she were a child. ‘Tattersail, dear. You heard the stories of the civil war that raged across Nap. The capital burned. Entire fleets scuttled in defiance of his rule! He’s weakened.’ Mock threw out his arms expansively, as if aggrieved. ‘He obviously can’t pull off a raid like this alone and is proposing cooperation as a demonstration of faith. Plus,’ and he tossed back his glass, ‘he knows I want revenge on those damned Cawnese merchants.’
‘Exactly…’ Sail muttered. It still troubled her; and yet, did one not have to take risks to make any advances? And was she not considering a raid herself? ‘Well,’ she answered grudgingly, ‘I would prefer it if it were us alone.’