shot with a bow Mia had ever met—Mia was glad for her company. But she still feared this fool’s quest might end with Bryn and the rest of her comrades in the grave beside Byern.
Of the five Falcons, only Butcher pulled up seasick—but given he’d pissed into Mia’s porridge the first time they’d met, she felt that had a kind of justice to it. The big Liisian had never been the finest sword in the collegium, but what he lacked in skill, he made up for in heart, bluster, and stunning foulmouthedness. He kept near the port side, where his vomit had the least chance of blowing back into his face, cursing the goddesses and Wavewaker, too, who seemed most amused by his upset stomach.
All told, the former gladiatii seemed to be taking to life at sea quite well.
But elsewhere on deck, things weren’t quite as peaceful. Ashlinn and Tric circled each other like serpents waiting to strike. Though they stayed apart from each other now that Corleone had given them their own cabins, there seemed an even deeper tension between them since they’d berthed at Whitekeep. Mia still hadn’t reached a conclusion about her own feelings as far as Tric’s return was concerned, but Ashlinn was clearly a knot of suspicion and open hostility.
Mia and Mister Kindly hadn’t spoken to each other since they sailed from Whitekeep, either. He’d not ridden her shadow in turns.
Furious as she was about his betrayal, she missed him.
And so Mia stood with the Bloody Maid’s captain by the wheel, playing her new favorite game and glorying in the feel of cool wind on her face. After months in Remus Collegium or cells beneath arenas, even a breeze was a blessing. And trying to win the captain’s ship off him was better than worrying about the tempest brewing aboard it.
“There’s a storm headed for us,” Cloud Corleone declared.
“Aye,” she muttered, looking at the deck below. “I know it.”
“No, I mean there’s a genuine storm,” he said, pointing to a glowering smear of black on the eastern horizon. “We’re sailing straight into it.”
Mia squinted to where he pointed. “Is it a bad one?”
“Well, it won’t be breaking our backs by the look, but it’ll be a rough couple of turns.” The privateer flashed his four-bastard grin. “So if you want to take advantage of the bath in my cabin, Dona Mia, you’d best be about it quickly.”
“I might just do that,” she mused.
“Splendid, I’ll bring the soap.”
“Might I also suggest some splints for your broken fingers,” she said, giving him a sideways smile. “And some ice for your mangled jewels.”
Corleone grinned in return, doffed his feathered tricorn. He was as sly as a fox in a hens’ roost and crooked as a scabdog’s back leg. But despite his cheek, Mia couldn’t help but like the scoundrel. Corleone seemed to enjoy a flirt, but it was clear from his playful manner that this was simply a game for him, much as trying to guess his name was for her. The tale of his brother still hung in the air with the memory of Duomo’s murder, and looking into the pirate’s eyes, Mia suspected she’d made an ally for life.
“I’ll have the cabin boy start up the arkemical stove and run the water,” Corleone winked. “If you’ve need of someone to wash your back, just sing.”
“Go fuck yourself,” she laughed, raising the knuckles.
“Alas.” He pressed his hand to his heart as if pained. “That does seem the only option available, Dona Mia. For now, at least.”
“In every breath, hope abides…” Mia grinned.
She skipped down the stairs off the aft deck and on to the quarter. Jonnen was sat to one side, playing with Eclipse at their own favorite game. The boy would gather up handfuls of shadows and toss them across the boards, and Eclipse would pounce upon them like a puppy at a bone. Jonnen sometimes moved the thrown shadowscraps to evade the daemon’s jaws, and he’d laugh when she missed—though it seemed a laugh of genuine amusement, rather than derision.
He stopped playing as Mia came down the stairs, though, his smile vanishing. Drawing a deep breath, she sat down beside him, legs crossed. Ashlinn had gone to market at Whitekeep, spent most of their coin—but she’d found Mia a good set of leather britches, black and tight, and a pair of wolfskin boots. She’d tossed her leather gladiatii skirt overboard with a small prayer of thanks two turns back.