carrying was likely no more a nun than he was a priest, the privateer was worried his sinking belly might actually start leaking out through his boots.
“And these are your only passengers?” Falco asked.
“Aye,” Cloud replied, raising a fist to knock on the cabin door. “We’re not usually in the business of transporting livestock.”
“They came aboard where and when?”
“Godsgrave. A few turns back. Booked passage all the way to Ashkah.”
The centurion gave a curt nod, and Cloud knocked loudly.
“Sister?” he sang. “Are you decent? There’s a few fellow servants of the Blessed Light here who’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Enter,” came the reply.
Cloud opened the door and found the Vaanian girl already standing politely to one side, back against the bulkhead, hands before her like a penitent.
“Forgiveness, Sister—” Cloud began.
“Step aside, plebian,” Falco said, forcing his way into the cabin.
The centurion dragged off his plumed helmet, smoothed down his sweaty mop of hair, and gave the sister a respectful bow. His steel-gray eyes flitted to the bodyguard in the corner, the muscles in his jaw tensing. The big fellow made no sound.
“Forgive me, good Sister,” he said to the nun. “I am Centurion Ovidius Varinius Falco, commander of the warship Faithful. By order of our imperator, Julius Scaeva, I must conduct a search of this ship, and thus, your cabin.”
The girl kept her eyes to the floor in a convincing show of modesty, nodding once. “No apologies are necessary, Centurion. Please, conduct your search.”
The centurion nodded to his four marines. They stepped into the room, eyes to the floor out of deference, each obviously about as comfortable in the nun’s cabin as a real nun would’ve been in a dockside fightpit. Careful not to impinge too much on the good sister’s personal space, they began searching the chests, the barrels, knocking on the floors and walls in search of hollows. For his part, Falco kept his eyes on the big fellow in the corner of the room, but the figure remained motionless.
Cloud stood and watched, butterflies beating about in his belly. He could hear marines going through the other cabins farther down the ship, and none too gently by the sound. He wrapped his arms around himself, jaw clenched tight.
Colder than a real nun’s nethers in here …
“Forgive me, Sister,” Falco said suddenly. “I confess no end of strangeness in finding you in such … colorful company.”
“I can find no fault in that, brave Centurion,” the sister said, eyes still downturned.
“Might I enquire what you are doing aboard this vessel?”
“You may enquire, noble Centurion.” The lass smoothed down her voluminous robes, which were blowing in the breeze from the open porthole. “But as I informed the good captain here, my task requires utmost discretion. My Mother Superior bid me speak of it to none, not even our brethren in the Light. Upon my honor, I must humbly beg your forgiveness and maintain my sworn silence.”
Falco nodded, gray eyes glittering. “Of course, good Sister.”
The marines finished their search, turned to the centurion.
“The boy’s not here,” one reported, rather needlessly.
The centurion glowered once more about the room. But seemingly satisfied, if still more than a little curious, he bowed to the sister.
“Forgive our intrusion, good daughter. Tsana guide your hand.”
The sister raised three fingers with a patient smile.
“Aa bless and keep you, Centurion.”
“See?” Cloud grinned ear to ear, relief melting his insides. “All shipshape and aboveboard, aye, mates? Let me show you lovely gentles out.”
Falco turned on his heel, ready to leave, his men close behind. But Cloud’s belly did a small flip as the man came to a sudden stop. A slight frown appeared on the centurion’s brow as he stared at the girl’s feet.
Gray eyes glinted in the cabin’s dim light.
“My sister married a shoemaker,” he declared.
The Vaanian lass tilted her head. “I beg pardon?”
“Aye,” the man nodded. “A shoemaker. Four years back.”
“I…” The girl blinked, looking bewildered. “I am … very happy for her.”
“I’m not,” Falco scowled. “He’s thicker than pig droppings, my brother-in-law. He knows a great deal about boots, however. Has a contract with the Godsgrave editorii, in fact. Every guard who works the arena wears a pair of his.”
The centurion pointed to the bloodstained leather toes peeking out from beneath the girl’s holy vestments.
“Just like those.”
Several things happened in quick succession here, each slightly more surprising than the last. First, the lass shouted “MIA!” at the top of her lungs toward the open porthole. Which, all things considered, Cloud thought rather odd.