“He is not averse to becoming your friend,” Beiro rushed to say. The dragon shot him a look which was followed by a long silence as they stared at each other.
“He and the wyrm are head talking,” Asdren informed me. “They do that lots. He and any beast, to be honest. Cute, ain’t it?”
Prescott ambled past, towering over us all, two massive kegs on each muscular shoulder.
“Cute,” he rumbled, his bare chest showing the girth and skin coloration of the mountain troll in his blood.
Half human, half troll. He didn’t know which half was which, but whenever I thought on it, I prayed to the witches that his sire had been the human, for if it were the other way round…well, birthing a child so large would be severely unpleasant. A male of few words, he was fiercely loyal to me, a protector few would tangle with. Another castoff found wandering Quinn’s Quay several years ago. Half-grown, thin as a rail, feared by most of the people in the harbor town, father had adopted him. Fed him. Clothed him. Taught him to speak Elven. Then had told him to watch over me. And he had. With a ferocity that made me glad he was my friend and not my foe. We had concluded his mother, or father, whichever was the troll, had found him too weak to continue feeding. The trolls are known to leave sickly offspring behind. With his human blood making him smaller than other troll young of his size, he was unwanted. A half-breed. Just like me. Perhaps that was why we had bonded so tightly. Two undesirable hybrid curs.
“Adorable.” I sighed.
“I have a real good sarcasm detector,” Asdren said while tapping his nose. That made me snicker. I liked the dwarf. And the scout. The creatures that traveled with them not so much. “I’m not going to claim to be no lineage expert or healer with akeen eye for blood regents or whatever. What I do have some knowledge of is ponies.”
“Is this pertinent to what we were discussing?” I asked, sipping my wine as my half-eaten plate of rice and fish was being slowly fed to a bird and a big blue lizard. What bitter grog had my life become?
“It is.” The dwarf reached for a sweet roll that he tore in half to share with his lover. It was a darling act. “See, when you have a strong stud pony that you breed to a fine mare, the foal will always breed true to its parents. You got the look of the Stillclouds to you, just like a newborn pony will resemble the stallion or the mare. Sometimes more strongly one or the other, but there’s always signs. If I painted your hair yellow as the sun, you and the king would be two stamps from the same press, aside from your human height and the shortness of your ears.”
I mulled over that bit of dwarven thought as I swished wine around my mouth. I let my chair drop to the floor with a thud that startled a croak of alarm from the raven.
“Tell me about Aelir.” I placed my arms on the table, the bangles on my wrist clattering as my forearms met wood. “Not the palace fuckery that the realm wants said about the young king. Tell me of the man who wishes to claim a bastard pirate as kin. Why? Why would he wish to bring me to his bosom? Nobles hate those they see as lesser, or criminals, and I, by virtue of my father’s lowly human blood and my profession, am both. So why would he not send an assassin instead of a scout to find me? Wouldn’t most of the noble houses of Melowynn end my life secretly? Why would the Ivory King bring me into his city and his home with open arms and a pat on the back? Explain this to me like I’m a child of four seasons.”
“It is simply how King Aelir is,” Beiro replied with the innocence of a newborn babe. Surely an elf raised among bandits could not be so damn gullible. I might have rolledmy eyes. The scout bristled slightly. “You make judgments of someone you have never met, never spent time with, never heard his impassioned speeches.”
“True, I haven’t. I have, though, been chased through international waters while not flying the blood banner and had my crew and several friends detained or arrested due to the fact that they have no credible papers to show to the dock inspectors.” I leaned over my arms, a wicked smile on my face.
“The navy and those under the king are only trying to ensure the docks and wharves are safe from…” He bit down on his lip, this son of a notorious bandit.
“Please, go on. They are seeking to keep the docks safe from what? Poor folk who are trying to fish? Hardworking sailors hoping to sell their wares to the good people of Melowynn but are turned away due to their skin color or lack of proper birthing registry? Shocking as this may be, I don’t possess any registry of birth papers, and I highly doubt you do either, offspring of Kagon Vahorn.”
“No, I do not.” The young elf appeared stricken. A pox on me for my flippant mouth. Hyla had always said it would get me into hot tar, and it had. Often.
Asdren looped an arm around his elf. “Ain’t no shame in that, Chirp. Them fancy papers the snooty elves like to wave around don’t amount to the berries hanging off a donkey’s shite hole.”
I snorted loudly. Ah, the dwarves. “I’m sorry if that sliced too close to the quick. Trust me, I know the snub of the crown and those that flutter about in silken trousers gazing down their noses at the ones who feed and clothe their dainty arses. Let’s just table this discussion for another time. No point in getting our noses bent out of shape. Neither one of us is going to be supping with the queen anytime soon.”
“You may well be,” Beiro responded, and I, for once, had no glib comeback.
Fukkate.
SLEEP HAD BEEN FLEETING. A rarity for me.
Hyla liked to toss out that a soul had to have a conscience to be plagued by bad dreams. To which I generally replied that I had a fine conscience, I just had no regrets. Which, until a few days ago, had been true for the most part. I’d considered my life to be a rollicking good time spent asea or in bed with lovers or enjoying the heady kiss of dark red wine.
Now, though, the life my father and his father and his father had enjoyed seemed dimmed. Tossing about all night like a feather on a riotous sea found me in a mood as the sun glinted off the choppy gray waves of the Stormhold. Suddenly, I was not carefree—or feckless, as my first mate liked to say—and it sat poorly on my shoulders. I had no wish to be found to carry royal blood. Fukkate, who would want all of that worry? I had enough people to care for aboard the Cloud’s Shame.
I rose from the tangled sheets of my large bed to pad to the porthole. A cool air wafted in to kiss my cheeks. It was foolishness. Why I had even consented was a mystery as deep as the ocean chasm the witches called home. Yes, having all that wealth would be lovely. The wind blew in and chilled my nude body while lifting my hair from my shoulders. I found the cold sea breeze invigorating. My balls did not, though, for they scampered up into my body like a squirrel diving into a leafy nest. Inhaling the scent of brine and tobacco—someone on thedeck was enjoying a morning pipe, Prescott, I imagined, for he did enjoy a sweet smoke—my mind did wander to the fantasy of being rich as a prince. Aye, I had yearned for coin. All those who didn’t have money wished they did, but I’d done well for myself. Plundering the navy’s vessels or those of the aristocrats. My father had left me well taken care of in terms of finances. The ship, several businesses in Quinn’s Quay, and a home on the lip of the cliffs overlooking the Stormhold.
I wanted for nothing. So no, it was not the lure of the money that I might come into. Nor was it the prestige or the power. Prancing about in court, whispering lies, plotting against others, pretending to be chaste and virtuous while diddling every maid and/or footman within grasping range, stuffing myself on tarts and honeyed mead until my breeches needed letting out. No, that was not for me. What I wanted, I went for—openly. If I found a man or woman attractive, I said so, and nine times out of ten, he or she was in my bed before I could pop the cork on a bottle of Sandrayan red. My life was here. On the water. The sea was in my blood. The witches’ blessings etched into my very bones. So that left only one other reason to even be sailing to Celear.
Kin.
A possible half-brother. Aelir. A younger sibling who had been denied me throughout my years. Lies. Lies atop lies atop lies. If my father were here, I would demand the truth, but he was not here. His skeleton had been gathered by Vaelora to use in her rituals. Hyla, the woman who had been a mother to me, had also lied. Aye, she had come clean, but she knew only what she had been told that fateful night I’d been whisked away from Renedith. Perhaps I sought only the truth of my lineage. Staring out at the first gulls kiting in the dark blue sky, a small flake fell from a passing cloud. Snow was always in the air this far north. I reached out to catch it on the tip of my finger. It melted quickly.The icy design turning to water. I brought my hand in to lick the droplet from my finger. A brisk knock on the door drew me from deep pondering. Sailors have many sayings, most to do with sex, the sea, or getting drunk, but not all. My father liked to say one could not sail from one’s destiny, for fate followed in your wake like a pod of ridged porpoises.
A wise man, my father. A liar as well.
“Enter!” I barked, turning from the window to see Simon slipping in with my morning meal. I grabbed a rich green silken robe from a stuffed chair in the corner. “Ah, time to break my fast already. Fine. Set it down on the dining table.”
“Captain,” Simon said, his bristly head bobbing as he rushed to set out my morning meal. “The coffee is very hot, and the eggs are runny. Pith said to never trade for eggs from the Lopp tribe, as their chickens lay watery eggs.”
