‘Why did you that?’ I asked, when the kiss was over. For all her games and flirtations, Rhyleis had never pushed things this far before.
She looked up at me and something in her gaze had changed – it wasn’t love or ardour or even mischief, but a kind of sorrowful compassion. She reached out a finger and traced the line of my eyebrow. ‘You are too serious, Falcio. When the bad days come, I want you to remember that there can still be bright and playful moments, even in the darkest of times.’
She kissed me once more, on the cheek this time, and started up the path towards the palace.
‘Wait,’ I called out to her, ‘what do you mean, “the darkest of times”? What do you know that I don’t, Rhyleis?’
The Bardatti turned her head and flashed me that roguish smile of hers, as though nothing had happened between us. ‘A great many things, Falcio val Mond. A great many things.’
I stood there like an idiot watching her saunter away until -Chalmers came up alongside me. ‘Is she really a Bardatti?’
‘As far as I know. They don’t exactly wear insignia.’
Chalmers gave that some thought. ‘It’s just odd, because she was talking to me earlier.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I’ve never met a Bardatti before. I always assumed the experience would be . . . I don’t know. Different. Mystical somehow?’
‘Was that not the feeling you came away with?’
Chalmers shook her head. ‘By the end of the conversation I found myself with a profound desire to punch her in the face.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
She looked up at me. ‘“Ah”? What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘As far as I can tell, that’s one of the only two sentiments one is meant to experience after an encounter with the Bardatti.’
‘What’s the other one?’
‘None of your business.’
I heard Brasti and Kest’s footsteps coming up behind us and Brasti announced bitterly, ‘Well, they’ve managed to lock up all the liquor – I mean, you can steal the deeds to half of Evidalle’s estates right now if you’ve a mind to, but don’t bother trying to get a drink in this damned place.’
‘That’s probably for the best,’ I said, and repeated Ossia’s enigmatic command to present ourselves at Werta’s Point three days hence.
‘Why would you be taking orders from a Duchess?’ Chalmers asked. ‘You’re supposed to be Greatcoats. Since when do the Dukes get t—?’
‘Please don’t get him started,’ Brasti warned. ‘Some bears you do not poke.’
‘We need Ossia to persuade the rest of the Ducal Council to accept Aline’s coronation,’ Kest explained. ‘But we have a different problem now, Falcio.’
Excellent. Because I didn’t have enough of those already. ‘What is it?’
He pointed towards the water. ‘The ship that was supposed to take us to Aramor hasn’t arrived, which means it was scared off by Margrave Rhetan’s galleon. It’s three days to Werta’s Point by sail, but if we have to go on horseback it’ll take us more than a week to get through the mountain passes and we’ll never get to the meeting on time.’
‘Perfect,’ Brasti said. ‘Let’s really piss off the Duchess of Baern, right when we need her most. Unless . . .’ He paused for a long moment, apparently deep in thought – which, I’ll point out again, is always dangerous – then suddenly grinned at me.
‘What?’ I asked, but I’d already guessed. ‘No. Absolutely not!’
Brasti gestured proudly to Margrave Evidalle’s gaudy – and now empty – wedding barge. ‘Pirates!’ he declared proudly.
CHAPTER NINE
Sanverio Gorge
The problem with ships is that they spend entirely too much time on the water. Having spent my life making my way through the world on foot and on horseback, with my only forays off dry land being the occasional – and completely involuntary – dunkings into various ponds, canals, lakes and rivers, I find the sensation of being perpetually surrounded by something that will drown you if you fall into it to be uniquely disconcerting.
‘Look,’ Brasti said, pointing at me as he hopped up and down like a giddy child, ‘he’s going to be sick again!’
Kest lifted his nose from an old book of maritime navigational theory – because of course he could read for hours on this nightmare vessel without ever getting even remotely seasick – and peered over at me. Narrowing his eyes, he said, ‘That’s not the look he gets when he’s about to throw up. I think he’s just having some sort of philosophical crisis.’
Chalmers looked down on us from her perch in the rigging. ‘Does he have many of those?’
Brasti rolled his eyes. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many.’
‘You know what I find relieves the symptoms of both seasickness and philosophical discomfort for me?’ I asked, lending an edge to my voice that any reasonably aware person might have recognised as a sign to stop talking.
Brasti looked thoughtful, then raised a finger. ‘Getting into fights and killing people?’
‘Exactly.’
He looked around at the sailors quietly going about their duties. ‘Well, I don’t think any of the crew are particularly expendable, so we’d need to find you someone t—’
‘He means you,’ Kest said.
Brasti guffawed. ‘Hah! Don’t be ridiculous – just look at him. He’s got the worst sea legs of any man alive. If the barge had actually been moving during the fight with Evidalle’s men, he wouldn’t have been able to draw even one of his rapiers without falling flat on his arse.’
I would have been keen to test out his theory but just at that moment there were other things concerning me. Two days of sailing had brought us to the Southern Sea and I now found myself looking out onto the endless expanse of water. ‘Are we . . . going the right way?’
Chalmers looked down and asked Kest, ‘Is he truly this stupid?’
Since my twentieth birthday, I’ve fought seventy-six judicial duels (not that I’m counting. Kest does that). I’ve been on the ‘vastly outnumbered’ side of more than a dozen different battles, thwarted numerous assassinations and faced an uncountable number of other attempts on my life. The fact that I’m still here and the majority of my opponents aren’t should say something about my capacity for both survival and violence. And yet I swear there isn’t a single person in this damnable country who’s afraid of me.
Chalmers climbed down to stand alongside me. ‘Look over to port.’
‘Which one’s port again?’
‘The left.’
‘Then why don’t they just call it left?’
Kest put down his book. ‘Because it’s only on the left if you’re facing the prow.’
I sighed. ‘The prow is the front, correct?’
He extended his hand in each direction while reciting them aloud: ‘Prow, port, stern, starboard.’
In a fit of pique I repeated his gestures, saying, ‘Front, left, back, right.’
‘Oi,’ one of the sailors said, an offended expression on his face, ‘show some respect for the lady.’