James West - Queen of the North

Gnat proved him wrong.

“Don’t have a moment to waste toting baggage,” he said, his long nose wrinkled as if he smelled something bad. He drew his hood over his filthy black hair and scurried from the room.

“The rain has given over to snow,” Nesaea said at the window, letting the curtain fall back. She wore a cloak of dark blue wool over green breeches and a voluminous shirt of cream muslin. “I loathe all this cold. Monseriq is never so bitter and wet.”

“I should hope not,” Rathe said. “The Sea of Grelar reaches far south before breaking upon the shores of your homelands. I’d like to see those lands one day.”

“One day soon ,” Nesaea agreed.

“First, there’s the matter of finding your sister.”

“Yes, and that means getting free of Iceford and the Iron Marches.”

After squaring their bill with Master Tyron, they hired a pair of his stablemen to load their belongings into a small cart and wheel it through the snow-quieted streets of the village.

Rathe kept a sharp eye along the way to the quays. He saw no one resembling Edrik or the Shadowman skulking about. When he had told the others about Edrik, only Nesaea had seemed troubled, but soon agreed with Loro and Fira that the man had probably been lying about who he was and the reason he wanted Rathe to join him. Rathe had doubts, but he wanted to believe as his friends did. It was too soon to relax, but he felt a loosening of the knots in his shoulders. In a few hours, Iceford would lay leagues behind him. In a few days, the whole of the Iron Marches, and all the troubles these lands had brought him, would fall into memory.

They found the Lamprey’s deck teeming with crewmen. Captain Ostre bawled orders, and his Prythian quartermaster enforced his commands. While Nesaea took Fira below decks-the fire-haired woman had become greener every step closer they came to the ship-Rathe and Loro hauled their baggage to the cramped cabins Captain Ostre reserved for his infrequent passengers.

“A thief would never serve as a porter,” Loro grumbled. “Not unless he’s taking the measure of a future mark.”

Rathe straightened from stuffing a haversack into a compartment under the bed he and Nesaea would share. “You’re not on about that again, are you?” Ever since he had met the man, Loro had yearned for the life of a bandit-king pillaging along the shores of the Sea of Muika.

“Well, I can’t have you forgetting now, can I?” Loro asked, brushing melting snow off his bald head.

“I’m not sure Nesaea and Fira would enjoy that life.”

Loro spread his hands. “I enjoy their company well enough, brother, but those two are the best reason to run away and never look back.”

Rathe arched an eyebrow.

“Just look at us,” Loro said with a scowl, “fetching and carrying like a couple of servants-and that after spending little more than a fortnight with them. Soon, they’ll have us wearing fancy clothes and sniffing pomanders, like a pair of highborn dandies.” He cast a pointed glance at Rathe’s fine wool cloak draped over a red coat fastened with shiny brass buttons.

Rathe rubbed his chin, making a show of considering Loro’s words. “Could be you’re right,” he said in a low voice, as if concerned Nesaea might hear. “And I cannot deny an itch of late to gut someone who wants to gut me-not some crazed witch, mind you, or any freakish beasts, but man against man in a good, clean fight.”

Loro’s eyes lit up. “Aye, brother! We need a proper bit of bloodletting to make us right. We’ll not have any of that while running about with a pair of comely wenches.”

Rathe nodded as though growing excited by the prospect. “I don’t know about you, but all this rich food and wine of late doesn’t satisfy as well as a tankard of pissy ale, a heel of moldy bread, and a trencher full of gristly meat.”

A frown creased Loro’s brow. “Well, now, not all ale tastes of goat piss, and not every meal must be foul.”

“And these beds!” Rathe went on quickly, slapping his hand against the featherbed, which was finer than those in the Minstrel’s Cup. “These will make a man soft as butter. Better to sleep on roots and rocks, or maybe in a damp cave. Such as that makes a man stony, keeps him sharp and ready for all dangers.”

Loro’s frown deepened. “That’s so, but there’s no reason a good thief cannot enjoy a proper bed on occasion.”

“Just so!” Rathe said merrily. “And I ask you, who better to fill that occasional bed than a poxy whore? As long as she has a set of plump teats and a warm mouth, who cares if she might think to rob us while we sleep?”

“Not all whores are poxy or troublesome,” Loro said, sounding doubtful.

Rathe half closed his eyes and put on a sublime smile. “Once we’re south of the White Sea, we ought to just drop off Nesaea and Fira, and strike out on our own. Of course, we’ll have to worm our way into a known band of thieves, or they’re apt to see us as rivals. Course, that just brings us back around to killing any fools who want to kill us. I expect in a year, maybe two, we’ll have surrounded ourselves with a pack of worthy cutthroats-you can never truly trust such a man, of course, but that just adds to the adventure. I can hear the songs about Rathe and Loro, sung in all the winehouses and brothels along the coast. We will be famous, revered.”

“I suggest we not get too famous, otherwise we’ll have armies after us.”

Rathe brightened further. “Then it’s caves and moldy bread, friend. It’ll be grand, either way, this life of a thief.”

“Aye.” Loro’s frown had become a concerned scowl. “Before we go off on our own, we really ought to help Nesaea find her sister.”

Rathe blinked stupidly to hide his grin. “What? Why? ”

Loro turned a fierce eye on him. “I thought you were a man of honor?”

Rathe chuckled darkly. “Honor is a dream for foolish children. We’re not children, but men of the sword.”

“Still … you gave your word ,” Loro said gravely. “Thief or not, a man has to keep his word.”

Rathe bowed his head in thought. At last, he sighed. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll do this last good deed, then we can be shut of Nesaea and Fira, and never have to see them, or their baggage, again.”

Muttering something about checking on Fira, Loro strode out of the cabin. Rathe’s lips twitched toward a wry grin. He guessed he had bought himself a few days of peace from Loro’s absurd fantasy.

Topside, Rathe found the snow had turned back to a drizzly rain, which made misty halos around the lamps hanging about the deck. Captain Ostre stood near the gangplank talking quietly to Robere, his dour-faced brother. Both wore floppy, wide-brimmed felt hats pulled down to their ears. Liamas, the Lamprey’s golden-haired quartermaster, strode about waving a short-handled battleax overhead to ensure the crew stayed busy securing cargo and making ready to sail.

Rathe made his way to Nesaea, who was leaning on the rail at the stern. She had traded her blue cloak for a sturdier one of oiled leather. The fur-lined hood was up, but the rain had plastered a fall of dark waves to her brow. The only thing warm and welcoming about the day was her brief smile when he joined her side. Up close, he noted a touch of unease in her eyes.

“I expect Captain Ostre has the Lamprey well in hand,” he said, looking down at the waters of the River Sedge. There was more ice than ever scraping past the hull, and the ice along the rocky riverbank had grown outward to encase the tarred pilings of the dock. The Lamprey was an ungainly tub to his mind, but he hoped Ostre pushed the ship hard. He didn’t want to winter anywhere near the Iron Marches.