She cast a questioning look to Gef and when she glanced back there he was right before them, making her start slightly, despite her scepticism. Small and skinny he was, almost painfully so; short midnight-black hair standing in all directions; and wearing the typical black trousers and black cotton shirt that were so clichéd they almost made her laugh – until she caught his expression and the sneer in her throat turned to a swallow.
Unnerving, his eyes. Like a reptile’s, watchful yet somehow dead. And a knowing smile, predatory, that seemed to take great pleasure from the shiver that his gaze scraped up her spine. She cleared her throat.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, motioning up the pier.
Geffen looked him up and down, his own scepticism obvious. ‘This is all you got?’
The lad raised a bag he carried in one hand. It was slim, not even long enough to carry a sword. ‘This is all I need.’
Geffen invited him onward. Lee walked alongside.
‘Kinda young to have acquired such a reputation,’ Gef said.
‘Are you reconsidering?’ the lad asked, and his unnerving smile widened as he asked. ‘Because it would upset me to have come all this way for nothing.’
‘No, no. Just … wondering.’
‘Let’s say I earned it.’
‘Sure, sure.’
‘Where?’ Lee asked.
The lazy-lidded eyes shifted to her, looked her up and down with an undisguised contempt that made her clench her fists. ‘Elsewhere.’
‘No kidding. Where elsewhere?’
The smile grew, pulling back from tiny, sharp, white teeth. ‘The Falaran peninsula most recently. I tracked down a fellow there who claimed a very important kill that wasn’t his.’
‘What kill?’
‘A king.’
‘So you killed him because he lied about the kill?’
‘No, I killed him because he lied about who he was.’
They reached the base of the pier and here Geffen halted and set his fists on his hips. He stood blocking the way of an old bearded fellow in worn trousers and jacket, carrying a fishing rod. After a moment Lee recognized the oldster as the mage who had refused to work for them.
‘What’re you doing here?’ Geffen demanded.
The old guy hefted the rod, but his gaze was fixed upon the newcomer. ‘Fishing,’ he said.
‘Kinda late in the day.’
‘You never know.’
Geffen waved him away. He passed them, yet still couldn’t keep his eyes from the lad. For his part, the lad simply smiled back – the smile seeming to hint at some darkly amusing secret known only to the two of them.
They started up the cobbled way to Geffen’s gambling house and tavern. Her steps, she noticed, had sounded from the pier’s planks and now against the stone cobbles – but this lad’s soft dark leather shoes appeared to make no sound at all.
‘Your communication contained the name “Dancer”,’ the fellow said suddenly. ‘I want to know – is that right?’
‘Yeah, that’s the name,’ Geffen told him. ‘Why?’
‘Good.’
Lee showed an arched brow to the crime boss. Fine, be that way.
Geffen cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. ‘You can room at my place. Is that, ah, acceptable?’
‘Certainly,’ the fellow answered, all magnanimous, as if doing them a favour.
Lee clenched her teeth till they ached. ‘So, what d’we call you?’ she asked, rather brusquely.
‘Cowl,’ he said, smiling again. ‘You can call me Cowl.’
Lee let out a snort and looked to the roiling overcast sky. Oh, please! Is that supposed to be scary or something? What a fucking joke.
Chapter 10
The Twisted slid down its greased track of logs with a shriek of wood on wood that made Cartheron want to cringe. It crashed into the harbour raising a spray that misted high enough for him to have to brush droplets from his face. Even so, he couldn’t keep a satisfied smile from his lips – until he gasped as a hard elbow dug into his side.
He sent a glare to his brother, who was grinning and pointing. ‘See that? Ain’t she the prettiest thing?’
‘Pretty? You said she was the ugliest wreck you’d ever seen.’
‘What? I ain’t never said no such thing!’ Urko motioned again to the rocking, black-tarred hulk. ‘Put the fear o’ Hood into everyone, she will.’
‘That’s for sure,’ Cartheron muttered darkly.
It wasn’t that she looked particularly fearsome, he reflected. Neglected, perhaps. It was more her reputation, spread in waterfront taverns and sailors’ bars all across the islands south of Quon Tali. A tale of men lost at sea, ill-timed storms, and bad luck all round. That last bit was the important part; men and women at sea were superstitious, and bad luck, like an illness, was something to be shunned. Not that he was some hick, or that he carried a charm to Nerrus round his neck.
Amiss ambled over, hands tucked up under her armpits, and nodded to him. ‘Recruits, Crust.’
Cartheron pointed his brother to the vessel – ‘Get to work’ – then followed Amiss to where a line of five men and three women waited – none of whom were Napan, of course. One of the men he recognized immediately: the burly marine from the Avarice, Dujek. He beckoned the fellow to him, laughing. ‘What’re you doing here, man?’
Looking a touch embarrassed, Dujek shook his hand. ‘Hess is a jumped-up popinjay who couldn’t handle a boat in a tub. When I heard you was captaining the Twisted here, I quit my letters.’
‘Well, you’re more than welcome.’ He turned to the first of the women. ‘And you are?’
‘Autumn.’
Cartheron looked the slim young woman – still a girl, in truth – up and down. ‘You a sailor?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Seen action?’
‘Yessir.’
Cartheron didn’t think that likely, but held his peace. ‘Where do you hail from?’
‘Purge.’
‘Mock’s short on crew – why aren’t you signed?’
Dujek leaned in, saying, ‘Took down one o’ Mock’s officers, she did. Crashed a chair over him for his straying hands.’
‘Ah. Fine.’ Cartheron moved on to the third recruit, a battlescarred woman older and far bigger than Autumn. ‘Name?’
‘Glory.’
‘Glory … really.’ He knew it wasn’t her real name, but that was to be expected. Most in this trade took on new names; a new name for a new life. ‘You a sailor?’
The woman curled her lips in the way one who considered oneself superior to her company would. ‘No, sir. More a fighter.’
He nodded. ‘Very good.’
The next was very obviously an experienced sailor in tarred canvas trousers, sun-blackened and barefoot. ‘Name?’
‘Torbal, sir.’
‘Why aren’t you signed?’
The man’s mouth turned down in distaste and he spat aside. ‘Don’t like Mock’s way o’ dispensing rank … sir.’
Cartheron nodded. ‘I understand.’ The next recruit was a female version of Torbal. ‘Name?’
‘Clena, sir.’
‘What’s your story?’
‘I’m with Torbal, sir.’
Cartheron nodded again. The next recruit was a skinny kid, a boy. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Orthan.’
‘You look too young, lad.’
The youth’s hands clenched to fists at his sides. ‘Please take me on.’
‘Why?’
‘Two summers ago Gef’s bastards beat my brother senseless. Ain’t been the same in the head since. Can’t hardly even remember his own name. Broke Mam’s heart. Please take me on.’
Cartheron nodded. ‘I see. All right, lad.’ He came to the next to last recruit, a grizzled old veteran. ‘Name?’
‘Brendan, sor.’
‘Long in the tooth, aren’t you?’
The oldster smiled, revealing four yellowed and worn teeth. ‘Know the Twisted of old, I do. Grew grey together we did over the years, you could say.’
Cartheron couldn’t help but eye the fellow a little uncertainly. ‘Really? You served on board her and now you’re willing to return?’ Then he had a thought and asked, ‘All those stories of losing half the crew to the plague, all those sailors lost overboard or maimed in accidents, failing to take a prize in years – are they all just tall tales then?’