Mock smoothed his long moustaches, grinning. ‘Of course, dearest. And you will be there to keep any eye on them. Any sign of treachery and they’re yours.’
She narrowed her gaze. ‘And you as well, yes?’
The proposal seemed to have caught him unprepared. He sat back, threw an arm over the rear of his chair. ‘Well … it will take all vessels and captains. There will be none to spare. And Tarel himself will not be accompanying his force, I assure you of that!’
‘Then you will outshine him.’
The idea obviously pleased Mock. His smile grew, and he nodded, stroking his moustaches once more.
At that moment there came shouts from the doorway. Some sort of scuffle. Tattersail thought she heard something about not being put off.
Mock yelled down the length of the main hall in a very un-kinglike manner: ‘What is it, dammit!’
One leaf of the double doors opened and the same liveried servant slipped in. With him came the shout, ‘The puffed-up bastard better see me!’
Mock rolled his eyes. ‘Is that you, Geffen?’ He waved for the servant to admit him. The lad spoke to the guards and moments later a tall lean fellow was admitted, straightening his shirts and belt where weapons had obviously been yanked away.
Sail eyed the glowering fellow. So this was Geffen, Mock’s man in town. She’d heard he’d been having trouble lately from a gang of Napans who were stranded there.
Mock refilled his glass, peered down at the man. ‘What is it, Geffen,’ he stated in a deliberately flat tone.
‘Come to warn you.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘About these damned Napans—’
Mock cut him off. ‘Not again. I’ve told you – if you can’t handle things then that’s your lookout.’
The scars that traced the fellow’s face like a latticework grew white as his features darkened, and he glared near murder. Tattersail was almost tempted to raise her Warren.
‘Not them,’ he grated. ‘The two they work for. One’s a pro from the mainland. A trained killer. My boys can’t handle him. The other’s a godsdamned mage. And he’s one scary practitioner. None of the local talent will go near him.’
Tattersail almost laughed aloud at that patent exaggeration.
Mock sipped his wine. ‘So what is all this to me?’
‘I can’t tackle a mage. But you can.’ He pointed to Tattersail. ‘Send her down to blast them to Hood’s teeth.’
Mock crooked a brow, grinning. ‘Really?’ He looked across to her. ‘Tattersail, dear. Do I send you anywhere?’
She peered down at Geffen, making no effort to conceal her disgust. ‘I choose to use my talents to support Mock. And I strike only ships. I don’t murder people in the streets. Especially not on the say-so of some lowlife criminal.’
‘Guess I’m just the wrong lowlife criminal, then. Listen, dearie, sailors die when those ships go down, don’t fool yourself.’ He returned his attention to Mock. ‘If you won’t help me, then I’ll help myself. I’m sending word for a professional from the mainland. Someone to take them down. Just so you know. You brought this about.’
Mock waved him off. ‘Hardly. And don’t come back here again, Gef. I don’t consort with your kind.’
‘You don’t shit gold, Mock. I knew you when you was a no-good backstabbing murderer yourself.’
Mock sent a pained smile to Tattersail. ‘I’m a freebooter,’ he answered. ‘If I killed anyone it was on the high seas with swords crossed in battle.’
Geffen snorted his derision and turned on his heel.
‘Nothing public!’ Mock shouted after him down the hall. ‘Don’t scare off the merchants!’
Tattersail eyed him rather narrowly, and he cleared his throat, his mood obviously broken. He lifted the glass, saluting her, and downed the last of its contents. ‘Well … preparations. We must refit the men-o-war.’ He rose to his feet, unsteady. ‘So, celebrations in honour of this pact, hm? I shall await you in my chambers, yes?’
She nodded, smiling. ‘Yes. You go ahead, dearest. I’ll join you shortly.’
He answered her smile, smoothing his moustaches, and headed to the stairs, staggering slightly. Tattersail knew that by the time she joined him he’d be dead asleep. She sat in silence, considering Geffen’s harsh words. It was true, no doubt, that some sailors died when their vessels broke apart – but that was anyone’s risk in joining battle. She’d never deliberately killed anyone. And it was something she didn’t think she could ever bring herself to do.
She eyed her rosewater tea, cold now. Well, if all went as planned she wouldn’t have to worry about such things again. She wouldn’t have to get her hands dirty at all. There would be others to order about for that.
Brother regent, Tarel had named Mock, apparently. Hollow flattery? Then again, wasn’t the story that the man had murdered his own sister to come to power?
She did not like that. No, not at all.
*
Tayschrenn walked the lightless tunnels of the deepness far beneath the Temple of D’rek’s lowest halls. He walked with his powers raised to their utmost sizzling heights, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, barely aware of his surroundings, his senses cast far off in a maze of power conjunctions and interstices that wove and danced between the walls of the Warrens themselves. He did this offhandedly, though he’d heard that maintaining such a pitch of strength and focus was a feat rather difficult for other mages.
He knew such research was forbidden, touching as it did upon other Warrens – Thyr especially, but Rashan and others as well. He sensed underlying truths, however, and would pursue them wherever they may lead. And, recently, such hints had been drawing him ever closer to the half-forgotten ancient figure of K’rul.
So he walked the night-dark tunnels, sensing, briefly, the far deeper murmurations of Burn herself within D’riss, and the accompanying soothing rhythms of D’rek.
Starved of light, his eyes came to play tricks upon him, and so he was dismissive at first of one particular weaving spark of illumination as it seemed to draw near. Eventually, however, the spark resolved into a flickering golden flame and he was startled to realize that someone was holding it upright as they came.
He stopped, as did the newcomer. He studied the person as one might interrogate a mirage. Female, near his age, a far lower-ranked priestess unfamiliar to him, holding a torch and carrying a small iron box under one arm.
She bowed to him, murmuring, ‘Tayschrenn.’
He answered the bow. ‘Priestess.’
The resins and pitch of the torch popped and hissed between them, unnaturally loud in the utter silence. The torch he understood; and after a moment, the box as well. Many were the annual rituals and observations that the cult of D’rek was required to perform, and this box must be concerned with one such. Few knew the list of all the duties. Perhaps the box held an item that had to be replenished, or a scroll to be read in a certain location, or some offering to be made at a certain day and time. Or, some whispered, unmentionable food for things that had to be fed.
The priestess bowed again, murmured, ‘My condolences,’ and continued on her way.