‘Oh, I’m good for it,’ I wink, and they head off with a nod and grunt.
I wrap my hands around the cold mug and sip slowly, feeling the tart and sweet flavouring burning my tongue. Soon I’m pleasantly light-headed and the drink goes down quicker. My thirst might be quenched at the bottom of this cup.
After a few rounds, I catch the man at the next table dipping into my bag, fiddling with the sliders and latches, trying to unlock itssecrets. Thinks I’m cider-soaked, the cheek. The place is louder now, drinkers swimming at the edges of my vision. I swing at the man’s face and miss, my body crashing into him hard instead. His knee meets my belly and then we’re brawling, the bright, sharp pain of flesh on flesh. Of everything being on the table, teeth bared, nails on skin. He catches me in my bad leg, and I go sprawling.
When I wake, I’m on the ground, but not the tavern floor. It’s the packed earth of the alley. My entire body hurts. The stone wall is cold and rough, and this is as good a place as any to close my eyes again.
‘You all right, stranger?’ A gentle voice wakes me from my momentary slumber.
I peel open my sticky eyes and some dirty-faced waif peers down at me.
‘Aye,’ I say, beginning to stand. ‘Gathering my bearings, is all.’
The waif helps me up, surprisingly strong under that wiry frame. ‘Are you sure?’ they ask.
‘My thanks, but I know my way from here,’ I reply, leaning against the wall for support.
Their face is swimming in and out of focus as they say: ‘There’s an inn at the corner of that street. The keeper’s named Narra. She’ll see you right.’
My mother tongue of Nishian is too dulled by the cider to say more. I simply nod and grunt assent.
‘Make sure you get yourself to bed, all right?’ they say.
I stare at the stonework of the alleyway, listening to the revellers inside the tavern. The ground smells like cider and piss. When I can finally turn my head without wanting to be sick, the stranger is gone. I crawl away from the stench towards the next building.The darkness creeps at the edges of my vision and I could just sit right here and close my eyes. Even with my eyes closed the world is spinning. The best cure for that is sleep, and I pass into the unquiet slumber of the drunk.
The soft light of the dawn wakes me gently. When I open my eyes I jerk up at the sight of a Seaguardian. Fuck.
‘Up you get, pal,’ he says, voice gently mocking as he hauls me to my feet. I let out a breath and lean into him, moving my scabbard behind my cloak. Better he thinks I’m some helpless sailor. ‘You have lodgings?’
I stare at him. He’s clean-shaven and younger than I first presumed, with hair cropped close to his head. His crooked nose is the only thing that breaks the symmetry of his face, but it makes him more intriguing to look at.
‘Somewhere to call home for the day?’ he elaborates, eyes roving over me.
‘This is my home,’ I croak, and he laughs.
‘Oh, a returner. Welcome back to Paranish. Are you from Umasa?’
‘That I am.’ I make a show of eyeing his pristine white uniform, the embroidered blue wave and sunrise sigil. ‘And you’re a Seaguardian.’
He stands a little taller, jutting out his chin. ‘Indeed.’
‘My mother was of your noble profession.’ I make my voice a low, soft growl.
I follow the Seaguardian’s eye to the shopfront I was unwittingly using as a bed. Wooden stands and drapes of cloth protect its wares, but I clearly see the rectangle of books beneath. The painted sign hangs from the awning:Good Morna’s Victuals and Volumes. Not something you see every day. Books were the worst thing to barter. Heavy, perishable, and useless unless you could read. No wonder the shop’s main goods were food and drink.
‘In need of a bedtime story?’ I ask, quirking my brow. I finger the Seaguardian emblem, and his eyes turn hungry.
‘If I remember correctly, there are some barracks not far from here.’
Nestor liked to fuck completely naked. Most of my trysts involved only getting as much clothing off as needed to do the deed.
‘I want to feel all your skin on mine,’ he says, unlacing the front of my shirt.
I stop his hand. ‘What if we play a game?’ I ask, unbuttoning his breeches. ‘I can be the Seaguardian—’
‘And I’ll be the queen,’ he says, words tumbling out. The blood rushes to his face.
I take off my belt, not missing a beat. We all have authority complexes, parental issues – name your poison. Nestor has already commanded the bunkmates out. Not that I’m against an audience, but now I understand why he wanted to keep this between us. The Seaguardians are supposed to worship the queen. Role-playing as her is a particularly perverse form of treason. Lower-ranking officers have been hanged for less.
