Sebastian withdrew his hand. “I’m not for hire, Lady Rathbone,” he said. “I’m already engaged. And even if I weren’t, I don’t sail to the northern islands of the Watch. Ever.”
“Why not?” she asked.
Because only a fool with a thousand doubloon bounty on his head sails past the Stoneyard Prison.
“I just don’t,” Sebastian said.
The beauty of Eleanor’s face became shadowed with fear. “I see.”
Don’t do it. Don’t complicate things, Sebastian thought and then heard himself say, “I can take you to the Eastern Edge. Or the Ice Isles, if we dock there for supplies.”
“East is precisely the exact opposite of west.”
“Aye, but it’s off this shit-stinking island of cutthroats and rapists.”
“It’s not home, Captain, and home is where I want to sail next.”
Sebastian felt irritation rise to his throat like bile. “It’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”
Eleanor glared at him for the space of three heartbeats and then sat back in her chair. Her lower lip quavered and he could see she was fighting valiantly not to lose her composure right there at the table.
Gods be damned, I don’t need this aggravation.
But Eleanor Rathbone took a final drag off her cigarillo and tossed it to the floor. Her emotions mastered now, she said, “A generous offer, Captain, but I’m afraid I must decline. I’ve been apart from my family for too long. I don’t think I have the stomach for another long voyage. But if you would be so kind as to walk me to my room at the Marchand, I would be most grateful.”
Sebastian watched her gather her shawl around her shoulders, grateful that she covered her breasts that strained against her crimson dress. She rose from her chair with grace, and held out her hand. Sebastian finished his rum, tossed a few kroons on the table and gave her his arm. She clung to him as they made their way from the dingy tavern.
The rain had dwindled from a downpour to a drizzle, and though it couldn’t be more than twilight, the sky was as murky as full dark. The boardwalk was alive with pirates, wenches, vendors, and drunks, all weaving to the Uagan melodies of shattered glass, the occasional scream, and the muffled sounds of fists finding flesh. Sebastian realized just how much he had drunk, as the cacophony of Uago put him off balance.
“If I were you, I’d get off this island by any means necessary,” Sebastian told Eleanor.
She glanced at him sideways. “Your concern, Captain, is heart-wrenching.”
He snorted. “Suit yourself.”
Eleanor led him down the boardwalk, past the docks. “Is your ship yon?” she asked.
He craned to look where she pointed and heard the shuffling of booted feet behind him. Without thinking, he shoved Eleanor to the ground. She fell into a puddle with a shriek of pain and surprise, skirts flying.
Sebastian ducked instinctively, and a club whistled above his head. Dark shapes surround him. As he reached for his scimitars the club struck him between the shoulder blades. He fell to one knee, a scratch of burlap brushed his cheek and chin, and then darkness descended. The sack was pulled tight around his throat so he could scarcely breathe. All the while, the club battered his arm, his kidneys, and then a foot to the back shoved him face down. He sprawled on the boardwalk, the breath whooshing out of him.
Press gang, he thought, and a wave of irritation flooded him, washing away some of his inebriation.
A knee pressed his back and his arms were yanked behind him. He let a loop of rope go around each wrist then twisted his arms with the technique he’d learned on Isle Juskara. He felt the slack he wanted but his captors did not, and was hauled to his feet.
“That was bloody easy,” said one.
Sebastian would have laughed except they’d clubbed him and choked him and bagged him, and so he silently promised them all death instead. He wheezed and stood hunched over, seemingly defeated, accessing the situation. One captor behind, two in front.
One of the men in front got close, feeling for weapons. Sebastian head-butted him with a swift, violent blow to the nose, then thrust his head backward, striking the man behind him. He felt the man’s grip on his bonds fall away. Sebastian stomped on his foot with the heel of his boot, then drove his elbow into his gut.
“Shoot him!” one cried, followed by Eleanor’s frightened, “No!”
The ropes were still looped about Sebastian’s wrists, but loose now. The man behind him was bent at the waist, moaning. Still blind in the sack, Sebastian found the man’s neck and wrapped one arm around it. He twisted the man forward, snapping his neck, and then hoisted him up, like a shield. The rapport of a flintlock cut the air and Sebastian felt the slug strike the dead man. He shoved the corpse forward and drew his scimitars. Rope hung in long loops from his wrists, no longer a hindrance. Instincts guided his motions, and he felt his blades slice and bite flesh, and heard the gurgle of blood flowing from an opened throat.
One man left, he thought just as agony exploded across his brow and blue stars danced across the dark canopy of the sack. Blood flowed. He went down on one knee, thrusting his sword blindly across his body, and found nothing but air. He raised his right arm and took the next blow on the meat of his shoulder. The pirate’s blade bit deep and then tore free. Sebastian grunted and twisted upward like an uncoiling snake, his left scimitar slicing sideways. It met steel and Sebastian flipped his right scimitar in his hand so that the blade was facing up, and sliced upward. The man’s scream came a second before the dull wet smack of his amputated hand hitting the ground.
Sebastian could see his opponent clearly now, even from within the sack. He dropped his blades and looped the rope that hung between his wrists around the man’s neck. He pulled and twisted, holding tight as the man writhed and jerked. Rage gave Sebastian strength, driving the agony in his arm and head away. Finally, the man’s struggles quieted and Sebastian let him fall to the ground.
The assassin tore at the rope that held the sack over his head, gasping for fresh air. His gaze swept the dock for other attackers but there were none. Some gawkers had stopped to watch but kept their distance and then scampered away when they caught Sebastian’s eye.
Three dead bodies littered the ground at his feet. Sebastian spat a wad of blood on the one nearest him, the one he’d strangled. Pain wracked his body but was a small flame to the white hot furnace of his rage. He retrieved his scimitars and sheathed them, forcing his pulse to slow, his breath to become even. He glanced about, sure he had forgotten something, and then realized Eleanor Rathbone was gone.
“Good.” He spat again and strode to the docks, to his ship, to refuge.
The street rats of Uago waited until the assassin was gone, then swarmed over the dead bodies like locusts. In moments, they dead were stripped naked and left to rot on the street as the clouds broke and rain came down again.
Meeting the Storm