of a crew, you’re salted. If not, you’re dryland scum. Pirates follow a code, see. The Six Laws of the Salt. First one’s Fraternity. Let’s see…” The man’s munted face creased in thought as he tried to remember. “‘Spite him, curse him, kill him, but know he the taste of salt, your brother shall he be.’ In other words, you might hate another pirate’s guts, but in harbor, you both stand head and shoulders above the freshwater plebs.”
“What if it’s a woman?”’Singer asked.
Butcher blinked. “Eh?”
“If the pirate is a woman. How can a woman be your brother?”
“How can they tell who’s salted and who’s not?” Sidonius asked.
“Some get inked,” Butcher shrugged. “Or scarred. Others will wear a token of their ship while in harbor. The worst are just known by reputation.”
“All right,” Mia nodded. “What are the other rules?”
Butcher scratched his small black cockscomb of hair. “Well, there’s one called Dominion. Basically what a captain says on the deck of their own ship is the word of god. And another called Allegiance, which is about chain of command. Crew follow the first mate, mate follows the captain, captain follows the king.” The Liisian pouted in thought. “I always forget the name of the fourth one. Heritage or Heresy somesuch…”
“Still can’t believe pirates have bloody kings,” Sid muttered.
“Believe it,” Butcher nodded. “And pray to the Everseeing and his Four fucking Daughters you never meet this bastard. Born of a jackal, they say. Drinks the blood of his enemies from a cup carved from his father’s skull.”
“Did his father die having sex with the jackal, or afterward?” Mia asked.
“Must’ve been quite a revel…” Ashlinn smiled.
“Scoff now, Crow,” the Liisian said. “But the Butcher of Amai fears no man of woman born. And Einar Valdyr makes me want to mess my fucking pantaloons.”
“Since when did you start referring to yourself in third person?” she asked. “Or wearing pantaloons, for that matter?”
“O, fuck off.”*
“Einar Valdyr sank the Dauntless,” Jonnen said softly. “And the Godstruth three months after that. The Daughter’s Fire the following summersdeep.”
Mia looked at her brother, eyebrow raised.
“I studied infamous enemies of the Itreyan Republic last year,” he explained. “I’ve a memory—”
“—sharp as swords,” Mia finished, smiling. “Aye, I know.”
Bladesinger sighed. “Well, Mother Trelene willing, Corleone is waiting for us at harbor. We just keep our heads down, find this pub of his, and ponder our next move.”
“With a bellyful of wine,” Sidonius said. “By a roaring fireplace.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Ashlinn nodded.
“Aye,” Butcher said. “The Mother of Night and all her cursed dead couldn’t hold me back.”
Mia looked to the silent Dweymeri boy, plodding along beside the road.
Tric didn’t even flinch.
* * *
The smell was breathtaking.
Mia couldn’t describe it as a stench as such, although a stench was certainly wrapped up in the aroma somewhere. The cityport of Amai was crusted on the shores of the Sea of Sorrows like scabs on a pitfighter’s knuckles. The stink of dead fish, abattoirs, and horseshit hung in the air above it, strung with notes of the ocean beyond.
But beneath the stench were other aromas. The perfume of a thousand spices: lemonmere and frankincense and black lotus.* The toast-warm scent of fresh tarts and sugardoughs. Sizzling meats, sweet treats frying in olive oil, the tang of fresh fruits and ripe berries. Because crewed by murderous privateers they may’ve been, but each ship in Amai’s harbor had arrived with something to sell. And beyond a haven for bastards and brutes and brigands, Mia realized the city was something else besides.
A marketplace.
They’d taken off their soldier’s livery—Butcher advised that entering the city wearing colors of the Itreyan Republic was just asking for trouble. Besides, Sidonius’s suit of gravebone armor was worth a living fortune and would be sure to attract attentions in a city of thieves. They kept on their chain mail and swords and hid the rest in the wagon, though Mia still wore her gravebone longblade sheathed at her waist.
The city was walled, but the broad, iron-shod gates were flung open and unmanned—it seemed King Valdyr could find few fucks to give for who came and went. Making their way into the city proper, Mia was struck by the crowds. Folk of all colors and shapes and sizes: tall and swarthy Dweymeri; pale, dark-haired Itreyans; blond-haired, blue-eyed Vaanians; and everywhere, everywhere, olive-skinned Liisians with their dark curls and musical voices.
“This is our mother’s country,” she told Jonnen. “You don’t speak Liisian, do you?”