“‘Our’ passage?” Cloud glanced at her hulking companion. “I didn’t know it was habit for Sisters of the Virgin Flame to travel in the company of men?”
“Not that it is any of your concern,” the sister replied coolly, “but Brother Tric is here to ensure nothing ill befalls me on my travels. As the murder of our beloved Grand Cardinal Duomo illustrates, Aa bless and keep him, these are dangerous times.”
“O, aye,” Cloud nodded. “Terrible shame about good Duomo. Cleaves the heart, it does. But you’re safe aboard the Bloody Maid, Sister, you’ve no fear of that.”
“No.” She gave a meaningful glance to her thug. “I don’t.”
’Byss and blood it’s cold in here …
“How much for passage, good sir?” she asked again.
“To Ashkah?” Cloud asked. “Three hundred priests ought to suffice.”
In the background, the harbormaster almost choked on his goldwine.
“That seems … excessive,” the sister said.
“You seem … desperate,” Cloud grinned in reply.
The nun glanced at the big fellow behind her. Pressed her lips thinner.
“I can give you two hundred now. Two hundred more when we reach Ashkah.”
With a smile that had earned him four confirmed bastards and Daughters knew how many more besides, Cloud Corleone tipped his tricorn hat and extended his hand to the sister.
“Done.”
A bigger hand engulfed his. It was stained black with what must’ve been ink, and it belonged to the large fellow. His grip was hard enough that Cloud could hear his knuckles grinding together. And it was cold as tombs.
“DONE,” the fellow said, in a strange, oceans-deep voice.
The captain pulled his hand free, flexed his fingers open and closed.
“What name should I call you by, Sister?”
“Ashlinn,” she replied.
“And you, Brother?” He glanced at the big bastard. “Tric, I heard?”
The fellow simply nodded, features hidden in the shadows of his hood.
“You have baggage?” Cloud asked. “I’ll have my salts load—”
“We have all we need, Captain, thank you,” the sister replied.
“Well,” he said simply, snatching up the laden purse. “Best follow me, then.”
He led the pair out of Attilius’s office, down the crowded boardwalk, feeling the jitters in the air. He could see at least twenty other ships making ready to put out to the blue, the calls and cries of their crews echoing across the harbor. The whole city was of a mood after Scaeva’s announcement—overjoyed the new imperator had taken control of the situation, but dismayed at the cardinal’s murder. Cloud was glad to be leaving the city for a spell.
They arrived at the Bloody Maid, rocking at her berth, the deep waters of the Nethers harbor a muddy brown beneath the Everseeing’s three burning eyes. The ship was a swift-cut three-masted carrack, keeled oak but planked cedar, her skin stained a warm reddish brown. Her figurehead was a beautiful naked woman with long red hair artfully arranged to preserve her modesty—or cover the most interesting parts, depending how you looked at it. Her trim and sails were blood-red, hence her name, and though he’d owned her more than seven years, the sight of her always took Cloud’s breath away. Truth told, he’d lost count of the women he’d known in his life. But he’d never loved a one of them close to the way he loved his Maid.
“Ahoy, mates,” he said as he climbed the gangplank.
“You’ve got a nun,” BigJon said cheerfully.
“Well spotted,” Cloud told his first mate.
“That’s a novelty.”
“First time for everything,” Cloud replied.
BigJon was a littleman. Everyone in Nethers Harbor knew it. He wasn’t a dwarf—he’d made that clear to the last fool who’d named him so by bashing the man’s skull in with a brick. He wasn’t a midget either, fuck no. He’d explained that to a taverna full of sailors as he took to some stupid bastard’s crotch with his knife. Nailing the man’s severed scrotum to the counter with his blade, BigJon had declared to the entire pub he preferred the term “littleman” and asked if there was anyone present who objected.
Nobody did. And nobody had since.
“Sister Ashlinn,” Cloud said. “This is my first mate, BigJon.”
“A pleasure.” The littleman bowed, showing a row of silver teeth. “Do you leave the costume on during, or—”
“She’s not a sweetgirl in a costume. She’s a real nun.”
“… O.” BigJon clawed at the collar of his sky-blue tunic. “I see.”
“I’m taking her down to the cabins. Get us under way.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n!” BigJon spun on his heel and roared in a voice that belied his small frame. “All right, you bobtailed dung-eaters,