“My business concerning the Bazira is your business,” Selena said, “since you agreed to sail me to Isle Saliz.” When he couldn’t find a reply, she shifted in her chair and said lightly, “What about you, Captain Tergus? What will you do when your commission is finished? Do you have a family somewhere?”
“I have no family,” he heard himself say. “I lost them in the war.” He had never said those words aloud, he realized. Not in ten years. Memories swam up at him again and were dispelled with a jolt when he felt Selena’s hand on his.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she told him in a low voice. She gave his hand a squeeze and then withdrew. “I have made you upset. That was not my intention.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“I know that pain. I lost mine too—”
Boris appeared and pulled Selena from her seat before she could say more. The bard had begun a jig and tables had been cleared aside to make room for dancing.
I lost mine too.
Sebastian felt a strange calm settle over him like a warm cloak. All the mead he had drunk made him pleasantly heavy; he sat back in his chair and watched the merriment as other couples took up the jig. Boris led Selena in the dance with surprising agility for one in his advanced state of inebriation, and then other men took turns swinging her about, making her laugh, making her forget her wound. Sebastian found the memory of his atoll rising up from the golden depths of his mug.
Hilka buzzed in his ear, tried to pull him into the jig, but he shooed her away and just watched as Whistle, his face red to his ears, tapped Selena’s shoulder to ask for a dance. The smile that spread over the boy’s face when she agreed made Sebastian’s heart ache with an unfamiliar pain.
The bard’s jig ended and the patrons applauded and cheered, while the dancers resumed their seats. Selena returned to her seat beside Sebastian, breathless and laughing, her eyes sparkling.
She wiped her hand over her dry brow. “Too bad. I was hoping to sweat a bit. I haven’t sweat in ten years.”
Sebastian had no idea what possessed him to do what he did next. The strange contentment, perhaps. Or more likely the mead. Someone, Hilka he was sure, kept spiriting away his empty mugs and replacing them with full.
He dipped his fingers in the mug then gently touched them to Selena’s temple. She gasped a little—a sound he shouldn’t have been able to hear under the noise of the commonroom, but he did. Her eyes—atoll blue and just as clear—were locked on his. Her skin was soft under his touch and warm, even if she couldn’t feel it.
Two small drops of mead ran in small rivulets down her temple.
“See? You are sweating,” Sebastian said, his smile and his soft tone seeming to come from far away. From someone else. Not him. Not the assassin. But for one moment, time stood still and nothing moved but those two drops that trailed down the smooth curve of Selena’s cheek, and Sebastian wasn’t Bloody Bastian on a mission to end a life, but a man sitting with a beautiful woman and making her feel good and safe.
“Julian…” Selena said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
He withdrew his kerchief from the inside pocket of his long black coat and offered it to her.
“I think I see a drop or two.”
Selena took it wordlessly, and dabbed her skin.
“You are kind, Julian. Kinder than I think even you realize.”
Kind. The word had never been attributed to him. Ever. The spell—the soft quiet—between them cracked but didn’t break.
“I’m not…”
Selena pressed the kerchief into his hands and held them for a moment. “Thank you.”
The silence that fell between them then was not uncomfortable, and they listened to the bard strum his lute and sing and tell stories of Ages past. There was more dancing but this time Selena refused, remaining instead beside Sebastian. He waved off all proposals that came his way as well and the hour grew late.
Finally, the bard sang a bawdy drinking shanty that all the locals knew. The song ended in a great thumping of mugs on tables and sloshed drink. He stood up and swept the jaunty little cap he wore off his head in a bow. He straightened with a grave expression on his face and the room grew quiet.
“I’ve been singing at the White Sail every summer for three years and I know well the Nanokari custom of paying respect to both aspects of the Two-Faced God. You, my friends, face numerous dangers in this harsh climate, and so no good luck should ever be taken for granted. Therefore, the time has come to honor the Shadow face in song or rhyme, to preserve and honor your traditions, to ensure that the god continues to favor you and bring you good fortune.”
Selena leaned over the table. “What does he mean?”
Sebastian shrugged. “Maybe the Bazira witch is here after all and she’ll come prancing out to dance for us.”
Selena smothered her laugh. The patrons were solemn; all eyes were on the bard.
“The moon is full; the Shining face smiles upon you—” he indicated Selena, who waved his attentions away—”so I feel we need one shanty to acknowledge the Shadow face. What say you, Nanokar? Shall that suffice?”
The crowd raised their mugs and the men bellowed their assent with an “Ayah!”
The bard clapped his hands together. “Then what shall it be? Something good and dark, as it’s to be our lone homage.”
The patrons began calling out the names of sad ballads, or tales of ships lost at sea, or of ghost ships crewed by the damned. The bard scoffed at them all until some bearded bear of a man who lingered close to the ale spigots, called out, “Oi! Sing the Ballad o’ Bloody Bastian!”
The crowd cheered and the bard wagged his finger. “Aye, now that’s the right proper stuff. The Ballad of Bloody Bastian it is.” He returned to his stool and settled his lute across his lap, tuning and fiddling with the strings.
Selena leaned close. “Who is Bloody Bastian?”
Sebastian didn’t trust his voice to speak. He didn’t think he could if he tried; he felt like those people in trapped in the dragon ice—frozen in place while the world spun without him.
A man at the next table leaned in. “Bloody Bastian is Sebastian Vaas,” he told Selena. “The Black Star, some call him. An assassin. One o’ the worst, most depraved assassins Lunos has e’er seen.”
Sebastian watched Selena’s reaction through lowered lids. She pursed her lips. “I’ve never heard of him. When did he live? During the Age of Sedition? Those were dark times.”
“No, he lives still,” Niven spoke up from behind them. “We lived in fear of him during my time on the Eastern Edge. He’s been terrorizing those islands the last ten years.”
Six years. Not ten, Sebastian thought, and reached for his mug. The movement shattered him from the strange paralysis and panic coursed through his veins instead of blood. He downed the entire mug, trying to drown his thoughts, but they scampered around his head like wild hares catching the scent of danger on the wind. He took inventory of his weapons, regretting he’d left his sword belt in his room; he eyed the front door, judging the distance should he need to run; he thought of how easy the inn—nay, the entire township—would burn with all the oil that was stowed here…