She blinked – the emissary was talking. She smiled, panicking, and coughed against the back of her hand to gain time. Damn Agayla! What does she mean by weaving such an ugly thing! She gestured to a small side entrance. ‘Perhaps I should go and see what matter is delaying Mock.’
Koreth’s bow was so shallow as to hardly be worthy of the name. ‘Indeed,’ he answered thinly.
To her relief, the main doors swung open at that moment and Mock came sweeping in. He was wearing what she called his ‘reckless’ smile and sported his finest loose linen shirt, leather trousers and heeled shoes. He, of course, was armed, with his sabre at his side.
He threw out his arms in welcome, calling, ‘Koreth! Is that you, you dog!’
The emissary bowed low. ‘Admiral.’
Mock took him by the shoulders and looked him up and down. ‘Look at you now. You captained the Steadfast at the siege of Bris, yes?’
The emissary blinked, startled, then flushed, obviously quite pleased. ‘Yes, indeed. Though we saw little action.’
Mock laughed off the answer. ‘You are too modest. That was a Napan victory to boast of!’ He threw himself into his raised seat, slouched, his booted feet out straight before him. ‘What can we in Malaz do for our friends and fellow sailors of Nap?’
Koreth blinked anew, quite thrown, and Tattersail hid a smile; this was the Mock she admired, always manoeuvring.
‘Well…’ the fellow began, perhaps rethinking his tack, ‘King Tarel sends his greetings, of course. It is his hope that our two islands may now begin afresh – without the unfortunate rancour of the past.’
Mock slapped an armrest. ‘I agree! This Tarel is wise indeed. An accord may be in order between him and me!’ He gave Koreth a wink. ‘This would free us up to eye the mainland, hm? Bris may be ripe for yet another sacking, yes?’
Koreth looked rather taken aback by such a direct proposal, but quickly mastered the reaction sufficiently to nod, smiling in apparent welcome of the prospect. ‘A formal accord between us would be an excellent first step, admiral.’
‘Excellent! Wine!’ Mock called. ‘A drink to seal our agreement!’
A young lad entered bearing a silver tray on which were set two tiny cut-crystal glasses and a carafe. Tattersail recognized their finest Grisian crystal, and reflected that it was fortunate they had two of the precious pieces.
Mock stepped down to pour, then raised his glass. ‘To the prospect of a formal peace between Nap and Malaz. Brothers and sisters of the sea!’
Koreth answered the toast, emptying his glass, then carefully returned it to the tray. He cleared his throat. ‘Any attacks, interceptions, or levying of fees on all Napan shipping and vessels should, of course, cease from this point onward.’
Mock returned to his seat, dangling his crystal glass. ‘Of course. Pending ratification of the agreement.’
‘Of course.’
‘And likewise, of course.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Excellent. Then our ships are in line, as they say, yes? Will you not stay for dinner? We must celebrate our agreement!’
Koreth fluttered a hand. ‘Sadly, I must turn down your hospitality, admiral. I must immediately bring this proposal to my king.’
Mock stood, nodding. He cuffed the shorter man’s shoulders. ‘Of course. We do not want any misunderstandings, hey?’
Koreth bowed. ‘Until later, then, admiral.’ He offered Tattersail a bow as well. ‘M’lady.’ Tattersail extended a hand, which he kissed. ‘Admiral.’
The emissary turned as if to go, but Mock spoke. ‘I have one small request to seal our agreement, sir.’
Koreth turned back, tilting his head. ‘Yes?’
‘These letters of accord between our two islands … they should all be headed: From Tarel, King of Nap, by grace of the gods … to Mock, King of Malaz, by grace of the gods.’
The emissary’s eyelids fluttered in astonishment. For a time he was unable to respond, until he gasped, finally, ‘I … shall put this to my king for his consideration, of course.’
‘Excellent!’ Mock answered, and raised a hand in farewell.
Koreth fairly ran from the hall and the doors swung shut.
Once the doors were firmly closed, Mock took Tattersail’s hands and kissed them. ‘We are halfway there, my love!’
But her gaze remained on the doors. ‘You shouldn’t have pushed so hard.’
He laughed and offered a wink. ‘I asked for king but will settle for count.’
‘It all relies upon how much Tarel wants us out of his way – what are his plans? Is he eyeing the mainland?’
Mock shrugged again. ‘A small price to pay to be sure of his flank. His scrawl on a mere piece of paper.’ He snatched up the carafe. ‘We must celebrate this night!’
‘I’ll wait for Tarel’s answer.’
‘Don’t worry. You always worry. But,’ and he brushed her cheek, ‘what would I do without my Tattersail?’ He raised the carafe. ‘Come! Let us celebrate.’
She watched him back away, arms wide, and shook her head – so like an eager boy. So … King of Malaz. That would make her … She lost her own grin. They weren’t married. She would go from mistress of a pirate admiral to mistress of a king.
She felt her jaws tighten. They would have to have a talk, he and she.
* * *
Dancer pushed open the door to the office above Smiley’s common room and paused on the threshold. It was empty – the fool had wandered off again. Where to this time? Back to that eerie house? He strode in, examined the mess of papers on the desk: more of the fellow’s sketches and enigmatic map-like drawings of lines and overlapping circles. The maps reminded him vaguely of astrological charts he’d glimpsed tacked up in the stalls of Dragons Deck readers.
Something crackled under his heeled shoes and he crouched to run a hand over the slats of the floor. Grit of some sort. He examined his hand, rubbing a thumb over the fingers. Sand. Fine sand. And – he sniffed – a faint lingering spice-like scent. Sweet. But with a bite, like mace.
Now he knew where Wu had disappeared to.
The fool. There was a good chance he may never see the lad again.
Someone on the stairs. He stilled. His hands went to the short wooden batons he carried for the moment; he wasn’t killing anyone – yet.
It was the youngest of the Napan crew, the girl named Amiss. She halted in the narrow stairwell. ‘Trouble in town.’
‘All right.’ He straightened, crossed the room and locked the door behind him.
Amiss tried to peer in past him. ‘Where’s … you know … the old man?’
Wu had yet to give his name to anyone, and Dancer suspected why – the vain idiot. ‘He’s off trying to gather more power to himself.’ Which was technically true.
The girl’s dark eyes widened in superstitious dread; Nap, it seemed, produced few mages other than those of Ruse. ‘Oh.’
‘So, what’s the problem?’
She blinked, nodding, and invited him down the stairs. ‘A shipment of liquor got past us and Geffen’s boys are using it to reclaim the concession to the bars in town.’
They reached the common room, which was its typical near-empty self. Dancer set his hands on the batons shoved into his belt. ‘Great. Who’s free tonight?’
‘Just me ’n’ you.’
Not the best combination – two knifers. But that was not strictly true … on this island he was the heavy. He waved her onward. ‘Fine. Let’s go.’
She led the way out on to the night-gleaming wet cobbles. Dancer paced along, hands on his batons. ‘How’d they get hold of the shipment?’
She waved, disgusted. ‘You kidding? Everyone on this island’s a damned smuggler.’