James D. McEwan

 

Argan was often silent. Never quick to judge, nor fast to temper; the giant Bruhadian stared back at Shadow. A wrinkle in his dark brow, he huffed and put down the leg of ham.

‘Did you go too far?’ he asked.

Shadow shrugged. He wasn’t having a crisis of conscience; he was content with his behaviour, though he was curious about his friend’s perspective. ‘Did I? You think?’

‘You broke his jaw,’ Argan said with emphasis. ‘His jaw, Shadow—you broke it.’

A statement of fact; it wasn’t even an answer, at least not a good one. Shadow hadn’t posed the hardest question to his statuesque acquaintance. A simple matter of property. The necklace had been legitimate loot from the last voyage. There was a saying among thieves: What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is my own. Though it was rare that he’d trust his own profession. Regardless, the plunder of the glittering jewellery hadn’t been the issue. It was the brazen reaction it had provoked.

Shadow raised a finger to Argan, recalling the egregious offence. ‘He ripped it from my neck. Called me a back-alley kiss-coin.’

Argan’s frown remained.

In a whisper, Shadow said, ‘Kiss-coin. Me?’

The Bruhadian shrugged. With another sigh, he said, ‘Shadow, it was Hoydai, and you were wearing…’

‘Wearing what?’

His frown relenting, Argan rolled his eyes. ‘It was a woman’s necklace. You stole it from the innkeeper’s mistress.’ He turned his huge palms upwards. ‘And it was Hoydai.’

‘Yeah, but the diamonds looked good on me.’ Shadow pointed to where the necklace ought to be. His fingers tracing his neck, he rued not grabbing it back. ‘That jealous lowlife had no right!’

Argan’s stare was accompanied by a slight shake of his head, but his features remained blank. Shadow had long puzzled over the frequent silences and his rare, often prophetic words. Though now, Argan seemed content to pick at his leg of ham. It had been a challenge to pin down his origins. Shadow had tried to speak of it with his captain, Petra. All she would agree was that it was probable he was from Bruhada’s disbanded Royal Guard. No more would she discuss; not while they were the crew of the Melody of the Sea; a ship of second chances and new life. Royal Guard? Had to be with that impressive bulk. Not to mention the aura that Argan emanated. Although the Bruhadian had never shown aggression, Shadow knew there was a storm lurking beneath the calm. Beware the unwitting fool who pushed Argan over the edge, although to Shadow’s knowledge, no man or woman had managed such a feat. He picked at the cured meats on his platter and tried to recall how many times he had tested Argan’s patience.

He squinted at the Bruhadian. ‘If a toss-pot innkeeper from Kalleron said that you looked like a…’

A sudden commotion arrested his flow. Shadow turned his head, scanning for the source. Honourhome, the preferred haunt in cold Laria, was awash with customers, and the chaos of conversation and laughter was an audible soup; a background stream of fluctuating noise that could wake the dead. Larian traders had come home from the continent with their wares from Gwynerath, and Kallerye entrepreneurs sought contracts with outcast Rotynians; Honourhome was where merchants established jovial bonds before the ruthless bartering began.

Shadow, standing tall and craning his neck, turned his attention to the excited chatter that was separate from the business and banter. Under the iridescent mosaic ceiling of crushed shells and ornate hanging lamps, he found the commotion. Visible through fleeting gaps in the crowd, the source of the disturbance came as no surprise.

‘It’s only bloody Petra,’ he said, turning to Argan.

The Bruhadian didn’t take his eyes off his food. ‘In trouble?’

Shadow didn’t think so. His captain was being dragged by her hair across the floor of the inn, but it didn’t cause him concern. He’d seen worse. The assailant, dressed in red and black leathers, had the rough attributes of a Kallerye pirate; a lower breed of scum than the nominally more respected Rotynians. Shadow grinned; what the idiot didn’t know would surely deliver the evening’s entertainment.

He moved to join the melee, but a solid thud slamming down on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. He turned, throwing a wild punch at his aggressor. His fist found Argan’s open palm. A feeble child slapping a prize bull. Shadow hesitated, his anger floating behind a veil of wonder. It was the smallest things that defined the enigmas of life; insights that delivered more understanding than any historic tome, or a bard’s rambling song of heroes. Royal Guard he might be, but how, in the name of the bloody gods, did the big Bruhadian move so fast?

Argan lowered his arm. ‘Easy, Shadow.’

A nod toward the captain. ‘But, Petra!’

‘Let’s just watch the show from afar, eh?’ He motioned to the tankard on the table. ‘Beers and brawls, and you don’t have to spill a drop.’

Conflicted by the urge to fight and his desire to drink, Shadow huffed. Argan was right. Petra could take care of herself. It would be a good show. Lifting his tankard but remaining on his feet, Shadow gazed with anticipation at what wonders might unfold.
 

A hazy rainbow passing overhead; it should’ve been pretty. Vibrant colours and candlelight. A charming sight spoiled by circumstance; Petra’s hands holding firm to her assailant’s wrists, fearful he might pull out her hair. A struggle to think. How had it all started? She and Felicitra, seated in a cosy booth, enjoying a carefree evening. Keen for the crew to relax and enjoy the comforts of her native Larian hospitality. Honourhome was a reliable port in any storm; a reputable inn with excellent fare. Perhaps it was the dratch? Felicitra had brought a bottle ashore, paid the innkeeper a steep corkage. Given him more to turn a blind eye. Few inns north of Shaddenhyne tolerated the erratic effects of the hallucinogenic toxin. Yes, blame the dratch. Though it still didn’t explain the undignified drag across the hard wooden boards. Too much thinking.

Enough!

Petra clawed at her captor’s wrist, her nails digging deep into flesh; a soft popping sensation as she found the tissue beneath.

A howl. Not hers.

Freed at last, Petra spun on her rear and rubbed her scalp with both hands. A furious massage to dismiss the painful itch of her unceremonious escort.

‘You bloody cow!’ yelled the…

‘Pirate?’ Petra said. ‘A bloody Kallerye pirate?’

Clutching his bleeding wrist, he stared at her. The grimace on his face, the spittle from his mouth; Petra presumed she had his attention, if not his respect. She didn’t care for the latter.

The pirate was seething. ‘You almost cut my fucking vein!’

Petra squinted at the simpering fool. ‘I missed? Damn.’

He lunged. A downward arc from his flying fist; Petra crumpled under the impact. Calloused knuckles connecting with her cheekbone sent a judder through her skull, but she didn’t wince or yelp. Though she regretted drinking the bloody dratch. The spirit appeared to alter the flow of time; the strike hitting home before she saw it coming. Shadow’s wise words came to her frazzled mind: Nothing beats a boozy fight, but only an idiot swings on the green stuff.

‘Whoops,’ she said as her body lurched; the floorboards sliding past her bleary gaze.

Where the hell was he going? Wherever it was, she wasn’t. Petra lashed out with the heel of her boot. Three strikes missing their target; the pirate yelled something lost to the thudding in her skull. Frustration creeping in, Petra rued the command given to her crew. They all knew not to help; petite she may be, but she wasn’t a delicate princess. She could handle herself. One of the Rules of the Melody: an order given was an order obeyed. Too many damn rules, Petra thought; her head bumping against the leg of a table. One last kick.

A solid contact; another howl of pain. Free again and scrabbling away from the pirate, Petra shook her head, tried to find her focus. She had to get to her feet. The bloody dratch playing tricks; she was already upright. So too was the pirate, storming toward her with a fresh limp. But Petra had a secret. Deep within her soul, the red mist was rising. How many times had it come to her aid? A few seconds of instinct to banish the fugue. Shaky but assured, she dropped low and pulled the dagger concealed within her boot. The pirate was almost on top of her. Petra swung the blade and side-stepped the charge with a drunken twirl, the dagger ruffling the hair on the nape of his neck when a voice rang out.

‘PETRA, NO!’

Her grip loosened on the command, and the blade scraped the pirate’s flesh. A signature drawn in blood; her mark would remind him of his mistake. Silver glinted in the air as the rainbow reflections of the tiled ceiling spun to the floor. In near silence, the clatter was a crash.

Felicitra. Her voice. A siren without compare to bring the world to its senses. Honourhome quelled. A dumbfounded pirate, and Petra sanctioned. From the crowd, a group of thugs dressed in red and black came for their friend. Arms around their shoulders, he limped away, never looking back. Petra turned to Felicitra, fearful of a scolding.

The hand that was raised fell softly on her cheek. ‘Petra, my love. You can’t kill your way out of everything.’

What could she say? What defence did she have? ‘You brought the damn dratch.’

Felicitra laughed. ‘Oh, we’re blaming the alcohol now?’ Her gaze reached beyond Petra. Nodding, she continued. ‘Not even Shadow starts a fight on that.’

The cornered wolf becoming a little lamb, Petra hung her head. She recalled what had started the fight. ‘I heard him talking at the bar. To his mates. Said what he was going to do… to you. I saw red.’

‘As you command your own, Petra, you know I can take care of myself.’

It was a truth Petra understood. Felicitra’s voice was her rapier. Her wit was her shield. If they failed, and they rarely did, then the wickedly sharp sesuri concealed under her steel bracelet was her failsafe. It wasn’t the piercing stab that settled wayward tempers; it was the sedative herb packed into the hollow point.

‘Come on,’ Felicitra said, ‘let’s get you to bed.’

‘All right.’

The night was young, but Petra didn’t relish the attention of the crowd. The chatter and gossip she expected. It was the questions on the lips of the crew, the doubts in their minds that gave cause for concern. Had their captain lost a fight? She peered across the floor, sought her friend at the far side. Between moving silhouettes, she saw him. Separated by the crowd, Shadow was staring back at her. A wide grin on his face. Petra frowned, unsure if he would see her silent question. Lost to the resurrected noise of Honourhome, the shape of his mouth spelled reassuring words. A wink and a raised fist to seal the praise.

You had him.

Petra smiled, and taking Felicitra’s arm, she left the pleasures of Honourhome behind.
 

Away from the crew, concealed behind her stateroom door, Petra had no need for courage. As Felicitra dabbed the graze on her cheek, the alcohol stung as though the barb of a Tormelorian wasp.

‘Ouch!’

Felicitra raised a manicured eyebrow. ‘Ouch?’

Petra frowned. Nodded.

‘How do you do it?’ Felicitra asked, standing from Petra and placing her hands on her hips. Illuminated in the candlelight, auburn hair fell across her shoulders in waves of dark fire. Her piercing blue eyes were Noctyrne’s light dancing on the ocean crests. A tall woman, hailing from the Valley of Seven Cities in Tormelor, Felicitra was the one-in-a-million lover of which stubborn hearts could only dream. She was a song for bards; a melody for the soul. Petra still wondered what fates had smiled upon her the day their paths had crossed.

‘Do what?’ she said.

‘This.’ Felicitra leaned forward and dabbed Petra’s cheek.

Another sting. Petra winced without protest.

‘I see you. As human as your crew. You bleed as they do; love as they do. You lose fights as they do. Yet…’ Looking to her palm, at the astringent-soaked ball, Felicitra shook her head. ‘None of them sees this. Why?’

Sobered by the fight and the freezing walk to the Melody, Petra frowned. ‘I’ve told you countless times. I’m their captain; I need to be stronger than all of them.’

Felicitra laughed.

‘What?’ Petra asked.

Felicitra raised her hand, bringing the delicate cotton swab closer to Petra’s face. ‘I doubt Argan would wince at this.’

‘Not in public, perhaps.’

‘Shadow?’

Petra’s grin widened. Shadow, how she loved him for the fool he was. ‘He’d cry like a baby. You’d not even get near him with that.’

Felicitra laughed again. It was a beautiful sound. ‘You’re probably right. But your outward face; what you show the world. Do you really feel it needs to be so…?’

‘So, what?’ Petra wanted to know what word Felicitra would hesitate to use.

‘Invincible.’ Felicitra frowned and shook her head, pacing backwards a single step. It felt as though a mile. ‘Because you’re not. Nobody is. Not us, at least.’

In the centre of her stateroom, the most beautiful woman in Petra’s world stood naked but for a sheer cotton nightdress. The contours of her perfect body highlighted in the candlelight; she was an artwork rendered real by unknown gods. Yet Petra found her gaze drawn to Felicitra’s feet.

‘My father,’ Petra said. ‘I’ve told you this.’

Feet moving closer, the lover kneeling down; Felicitra’s hand reached to lift Petra’s chin. ‘You’re not your father.’

Petra reached to hold Felicitra’s wrist. ‘More than people know.’

‘But he was…’

‘Everything to me.’

It comforted Petra that Felicitra remained close. The discussion wasn’t new; it wasn’t pleasant. She thought repeating it might push her away. Perhaps it was true what they said of the Tormelorians. If they had the patience to build seven cities; then they must have had the patience of the gods. It was a quality Felicitra had in abundance.

‘I know my father wasn’t a good man. But he was to me. I was all he had, and he gave me everything a man of his nature could. Taught me everything he knew.’ She lifted her gaze. ‘When they finally came for him; when they set eyes on me…’

The glow of Felicitra’s face dimmed. A sadness to replace the joy. Petra thought she might rise to her feet, but those loving hands came to her face, held soft against her skin. ‘I know. I know.’

Secure in that cradle, Petra lost herself in Felicitra’s blue eyes. She fought to control the emotion of the wicked memory. ‘They had me. Almost.’ Nodding. It was becoming harder to fight the tears, but she continued. ‘My father. The wealthy trader. Noble benefactor. The alderman. Corrupt to his rotten core. But none of them knew his truth. My father; the murderer. Killed more men and women than I knew. And I hated him, Felicitra. I hated him until that day. Hated how strong I had to be; how strong he asked me to be. But that day he showed me his true face.’

Petra recalled the day her father’s squalid empire had come crashing down. And though in the years after she had tried to find who had betrayed him, the answer had always eluded her. Whoever it was, they had brought despair to her life.

Felicitra’s touch gave Petra the confidence to relive the memory. ‘Like rats, they swarmed through the mansion. Scurrying like degenerates. They took everything, no matter its value; they came to rip his legacy apart. As far as they were concerned, I was just part of his empire. Barely thirteen, I was nothing to them but property. Something to take. I couldn’t count the hands that were on me. So many, clutching and clawing, and I thought…’

Felicitra’s finger moved to Petra’s lips. ‘I know. And I’m sorry I brought it up. You don’t need to go over it again.’

Given fortitude by her father’s ghost, Petra brushed the hushing finger from her lips. Thinking of that moment, of what wicked men might steal from innocence, a fire rose within. A fierce flame to burn away the fears.

‘A murderer came to me that night. Stopped the horror. My father, come screaming as the Wind herself. A furious gale of anger. I can see it as clear as yesterday.’ She looked at Felicitra, a frown offered to her lover. ‘I don’t know how he broke free, but he appeared among them. A knife in hand. As many times as I’ve told you, Felicitra, my father had uncanny strength. The blood of strangers rained down on me that evening. My father—the heroic monster. But there were too many to overpower, and I think he knew his fate. I scrambled away from it all, his last words sticking in my mind: Run, my sweet girl, run. I can see his face, even now; his wide smile to see me flee.’ Petra held tight to Felicitra’s hand; she wanted her lover to know the truth. ‘A weak man wouldn’t have saved me. No normal man could have stopped them from taking what they wanted. It took just one murderer to stop a dozen rapists. It showed me—I knew what I had to be to survive.’ Petra leant forward and kissed Felicitra. She remained close, sharing the air they breathed. ‘Only you get to see the sweet girl my father knew.’

Felicitra nodded. ‘All that happened; what your father did. That’s why you have such affection for Shadow.’

It was so obvious; how could she not have seen? Shadow, in almost every way, was the embodiment of her father. A love of vice and violence; but a man so loyal to Petra that many thought them lovers. As her father had done, she knew Shadow would risk all for her. As would she, for him.

Petra sighed and nodded. ‘I can’t imagine how stupid I look. I never thought of it like that.’

‘It’s not stupid, Petra. Even I can see the worth in Shadow. He’s an acquired taste, certainly; a rough diamond, definitely.’ Felicitra’s hand cupped her cheek. ‘But perhaps the only one to keep you safe? When I’m not around, of course.’

Petra smiled. ‘He is… unique.’ Another kiss for Felicitra. ‘But even he doesn’t see what I want you to see. I am me, only for you.’

Felicitra wriggled free of her grasp. She stepped to the door and turned the latch. Graceful steps carried her across the wooden boards. Not a single creak came from the polished timber planks. One by one, Felicitra extinguished the lamps. As darkness enveloped the room, her voice came as a messenger from the gods.

‘Then be mine tonight, Petra. Be all of you.’