She straightened, waiting for her breath to calm. “No.”
“I already told you, you are in no position . . .”
“To bargain?” She grinned. “Oh I think I am.”
The men from the boat were given their own corner of the hold, plus fresh clothing and food. Lyrna and the two other women, Murel and Orena, were given the first mate’s cabin to share.
“You’re sure?” Murel asked in her soft whisper.
Lyrna held out her hand for the small mirror she had seen the girl trying to hide. “Yes.”
The mirror was backed with silver, ornately engraved in the manner favoured by Alpiran smiths from the northern ports, the motif of a man engaged in combat with a lion typical of the style. She traced her fingers over the image for a moment then turned the mirror over.
She always wondered why there were no screams, no tears, no despair sending her into thrashing hysterics. She felt it all, inside, a raging, burning storm of anguish and pain, but all she actually did was sit and stare at the burnt stranger in the mirror. Most of her hair was gone, the scalp a mottled relief of red and pink flesh. The flames had caught the upper side of her face, the scars ascending from the bridge of her nose, the line of seared skin slanting diagonally from left cheekbone to right jaw, like an ill-fitting mask worn to scare children on the warding’s night.
I am no queen, she thought, staring into the eyes of the burnt stranger. What artist will ever paint this portrait? And what do I tell the mint to stamp on the coins? The thought drew a laugh, making Murel start, no doubt wondering if she had slipped into madness.
Lyrna handed the mirror back to her. “Thank you.”
“What happened in the hold?” Orena asked, a slim woman with dark brown hair and eyes, the abuse she had suffered evident in the bruises on her neck, but less traumatised by her ordeal than Murel. However, she was smart enough to be afraid.
“I killed a Volarian,” Lyrna said, seeing little point in deceit.
“Why?”
“To secure our place on this ship.”
“And where is this ship headed exactly?”
“The Meldenean Isles. From there we can make our way back to the Realm.”
“In return for what?”
Lyrna lifted the book from the bed where she had placed it, thumbing through the middle pages. “A small service. Don’t worry, the captain has agreed none of us will be touched provided I perform adequately.”
“Not so sure about that,” the woman muttered, pacing the cabin, arms crossed. “These pirates . . . I don’t like how they look at us. The slavers were bad enough. Never thought I’d miss my husband, the fat fool.”
Murel slumped onto the bed. “If he was fat and foolish, why did you marry him?” she asked.
Orena gave her a quizzical look. “He was rich.”
Lyrna concentrated on the book as they chattered. For the most part it was the dull minutiae of military correspondence, lists of supplies, expected lines of advance. She took note of the fact that the Volarians had extensive plans for the occupation of all the fiefs save Renfael, recalling Darnel’s final words at their last meeting. Faith help me, I had to try.
Has the steel-clad fool finally given me reason to hang him? she wondered, deciding it was a question for another time. The Ship Lords sent their best men for this. There has to be a reason.
Whoever had written the text was clever enough not to rely exclusively on the code. Certain place names had been substituted. She was able to identify The Eerie as Varinshold due to the description of the street plan, and Crow’s Nest was obviously Alltor; what other city sat on an island? Others were less obvious. Gull’s Perch was barely described as was Raven’s Loft, though mention of mines led her to suspect it as the Northern Reaches. I pity whoever they send to take them, she thought. However, the longest description was afforded to Serpent’s Den, a complicated place of numerous ports and sea channels. The description was also followed by an extensive plan of attack.
It is imperative, she read, that as many ships as possible be gathered for the assault on the Serpent’s Den following the successful investment and pacification of The Eerie. The assault must take place before the onset of the winter storms. Admiral Karlev will take command of the strike squadrons, primary importance being afforded to denying the enemy use of their ports . . .
She rose from the bed and went to the door, hauling it open, the guard outside stepping forward with his hand on his sabre hilt. He had been the one guarding the dead Volarian and seemed keen not to get too close. “I need to see him,” she said.
“I’m trusting you to keep our agreement,” she told the captain in his cabin. “But I think you’ll agree it’s best if I share this now.”
He had needed little persuasion; if anything, she seemed to be confirming a long-held suspicion. He ordered all excess weight cast overboard, even the gold bars captured from the Volarians, and every sail raised. Due to the prevailing currents they had to tack south before striking east, the captain hounding every inch of efficiency from his crew.
“What’s happening?” Iltis asked as the escapees clustered around Lyrna in the hold.
“The Volarians move against the Meldenean Isles,” she said. “We hasten there with warning.”
“And our fate when we arrive?” Harvin enquired.
“The captain has given his word we’ll be released. I have reason to trust it.”
“Why?” the outlaw pressed.
“He’ll need me to convince the Ship Lords.”
Foul weather descended two days later, the captain trimming as little sail as possible as the sea rose in great angry swells and the wind threatened to rip the crew from the rigging. The ceaseless pitching of the ship sent most of her compatriots heaving, only she and Benten remaining immune.
“Sailed before, my lady?” the young fisherman asked during a slight lull in the storm as the others bent over the rail, Harvin raising his head between retches to voice the most colourful curses she was yet to hear.
“Pig-fucking sons of whores!” he ranted, much to the amusement of the crew.
“I’m not a lady,” she told Benten. “And before this my sailing experience consisted of a few barge trips up the Brinewash.” The last with my niece and nephew, before I travelled north. Janus spotted an otter climbing onto the riverbank with a freshly caught trout flapping in its mouth, clapping his hands and jumping in delight . . .
“My lady?” Benten said, a note of concern in his voice.
Lyrna touched a hand to her eyes and found them wet. “Mistress,” she corrected. “Just a simple merchant’s daughter.”
“No.” He gave a slow but emphatic shake of his head. “You certainly are not.”
The storm abated after six full days of fury, all sails hauled into place to catch the westerly winds as the sun dried the deck. Lyrna took to wearing a scarf over her mottled scalp, finding the sun’s heat painful on her scars. It was to lead to a near-disastrous incident when one of the crew offered her a mocking bow, presenting her with a larger scarf. “For your face, Mistress,” he explained.
Iltis had laughed, issuing great hearty peals of mirth as he strode across the deck, proffering an appreciative hand to the Meldenean, who proved fool enough to take it.
“How’s he supposed to work the rigging with both arms broken?” the captain demanded a short while later. The fight had been brief but brutal, the crewman Iltis had crippled resembling a recently landed fish as he flopped about on the deck whilst the brother, Harvin and Benten exchanged punches with his mates. The captain barked out a restraining order when one of the crew drew his sabre.
“One of our number is a sailor,” Lyrna replied. “He can take his place.”