Pride, Dancer read in her every stern line. Ferocious pride. How did anyone come to such monumental arrogance? And he smiled inwardly. Well … I should know.
The girl made it clear she considered the interview over by backing away – not turning round, as anyone else might, but sliding one bare foot behind the other and edging her weight backwards. And Dancer smiled again, inwardly. One should not advertise one’s training so openly.
Also studying the girl, one brow raised, Wu motioned to him. ‘My, ah, partner, Dancer.’
Surly eyed him anew. He watched her gaze move from his face to his hands, to his feet, a knowing amusement similar to his own growing in her dark eyes. ‘Partner,’ she said. ‘I see.’
‘So what brought you here, then?’ Wu went on.
The amused light disappeared behind high, hard walls. ‘Shipwreck in a storm. We are the few of … the crew who made it to shore.’
What had she been going to say just then, Dancer wondered. My crew, perhaps?
‘I see … well, thank you.’ Wu motioned her out.
The scowl returned but she withdrew, pulling the door shut as she left.
Dancer remained poised next to the window. He eyed the door, musing aloud, ‘I heard of some sort of dispute among the royal family of Nap not long ago. A civil war. This lot might’ve backed the losing side. So they can’t go back. They’re stuck here.’
No answer came from Wu and Dancer turned: the lad was leaning back in the captain’s-style chair, using his hands to cast shadow-images on the wall. Sensing Dancer’s attention he glanced over, blinking. ‘Sorry? You were saying something?’
Dancer gritted his teeth. ‘Never mind. Let’s talk about our plans.’
Wu thumped elbows to the desk and set his chin in his fists, frowning in hard thought. ‘Yes. Our plans. No sense tackling one of the corsair captains here – the crew wouldn’t follow us. I’ve never sailed. Mock rules from his Hold, but he probably doesn’t care who runs the streets. So, for now, we limit our attention to the shore. The merchants and bosses who control the markets and warehouses.’
Dancer had pursed his lips, considering. ‘What do you propose?’
Wu raised his head, smiling. ‘Why, our forte, of course. Ambush and hijacking.’
Chapter 2
‘Awake, awake, Mistress Jay!’ Light blossomed and Sail winced, pulling the covers over her eyes. ‘’Tis late! What are you thinking, lolling about in bed?’
‘All the rich ladies in Unta do it, Viv. It’s good for the complexion. And it’s not Jay. It’s Sail.’
A poker rattled in the stone fireplace. ‘Well, I’d think it’s not good for the complexion. Makes the eyes puffy and all.’
‘You know nothing, Viv.’
There came a huff and a sniff. ‘Well … if Mistress Sail says so…’
Sail took the time to stretch. She arched her back, luxuriating in the soft smooth glide of clean cotton sheets – so unlike the coarse flea-infested rags of her youth. Her hand emerged from the layered covers to encounter the chill morning air of Malaz Island and she flinched, drawing her knees to her chest.
Gods, it was freezing! It was summer and it was freezing! How she hated this damned island. And trust Viv to start the fire late.
She dared poke her head from beneath the heaped quilts, and blinked at the light of mid-morning. ‘Is the chamberpot ready?’
Viv, her supposed lady-in-waiting, though having seen a bare twelve summers, turned from where she knelt at the fireplace. She wrinkled her tiny freckled nose. ‘Why do you have to use that smelly thing? Just use the privy like everyone else.’
Through clenched teeth Sail said, ‘Because that’s not what real ladies do.’
Viv rolled her eyes, then returned to rebuilding the fire. ‘More work for us,’ she grumbled.
‘Don’t forget who I am.’
‘Oh, I ain’t forgetting. You’re in bed, not me.’
Sail gathered the duvet about herself and dragged it across the icy bare stone floor of the bedroom to the divider behind which lay the ceramic chamberpot. She crouched over it and eased her bladder in an embarrassingly loud hiss.
She wondered what the real ladies in Unta did about that. She shuffled from behind the divider. ‘Now dress me.’
Viv sighed and straightened from the stone hearth, brushed errant strands of black hair from her snowy-pale forehead.
Well, Sail reflected, as least they’d progressed past comments like ‘Can’t you dress yourself?’
‘The riding skirts,’ she said.
Viv searched through the clothes chest. She grumbled, just loud enough, ‘Ain’t no horses on Malaz.’
Sail almost despaired. Couldn’t this foolish child see what a benefit this was for her? She was learning an art she could market on the mainland. ‘They’re all the fashion, Viv.’
‘Where?’
‘What do you mean, where?’ She waved impatiently. ‘In the cities. Tali and Gris and Unta!’
‘Do much riding in these cities, do they?’
Sail clenched her lips tight, hissed, ‘Just bring them.’
Viv held out the layered thick skirts and Sail dared stretch an arm out of the duvet to take them. ‘And the velvet long-sleeved blouse, and that woven Wickan vest.’
Viv blew hair from her face and returned to the chest. ‘It’s summer,’ she said. ‘Why not a sleeveless dress?’
Sail shuddered in her wrap. ‘Summer here? What a joke. Bring the heeled shoes too. The black ones.’
‘Yes, mistress.’
Sail drew on the skirts. ‘Where’s Mock?’
‘Don’t know.’
As always, the dislike in the girl’s voice was obvious, and, as always, Sail chose to ignore it. She found the waist of the skirts too tight and realized she’d have to get Viv to let them out once again; she’d always been curvy, but perhaps there was a limit. ‘Don’t know?’ She waved her off. ‘Well, find out. And don’t forget to air the bedding and send someone to empty the pot.’
Viv dropped the remaining clothes on the bed and flounced from the bedchamber. ‘Yes, mistress.’
That’s right, child. Mistress. I am mistress of this castle – and don’t you forget it. She dressed hurriedly, tried to fluff up her tangled hair. The Deck of Dragons beckoned from the writing desk. It fairly burst with swirling potential this morning, but she’d already decided to find Mock. She turned away to the door.
Her search brought her down to the main floor of the keep. This consisted almost entirely of one large reception and banquet hall. Here Mock held court during long evening meals where he entertained his pirate – or, as they called themselves, privateer – captains. Privateers because they carried letters of marque and reprisal, penned by Mock himself, that allowed predation on all seagoing commerce during times of war. And war, of course, was constant.