A discreet knock sounded at the door, and at his measured “Come in,” the door opened. He didn’t turn.
“Do sit.” He waited while skirts rustled to a stop, and pictured her face—pert and rather attractive, with dark flashing eyes and a mouth that was alive with possibilities. She wouldn’t be smiling now though.
He waited and waited, imagining her squirm and sweat. Making her make the first move. In the meantime he studied the avenue and the merchants and considered what changes he’d make when he was head of the Yelen.
“You asked to see me?” she said at last.
He suppressed the smile that wanted to stretch his lips. He still didn’t turn. “I did, yes. You offered very much for your uncle’s release.”
“A more immoral man would have taken it,” she said, too quick, too glib. He couldn’t be flatter-slicked that way.
He laughed under his breath. “No, it just wasn’t what I wanted. But I have a task for you. A chance to earn your uncle’s release by getting me what I do want.”
Her voice came, trembling, but she tried to master it. “Name it.”
“Van Gast. I want you on his ship. I know you’ve racked before, so it shouldn’t be a problem for you. I want to know his weaknesses, what he’ll do anything to get or anything to avoid. I want everything you can find out about him. And I want your silence on the subject. If anyone but me knows about this arrangement, your uncle is as dead as tonight’s dinner.” Finally he turned and looked at her. She didn’t look anywhere near as pert and attractive as she had. Her skin was gray, her hair lank and her eyes were raw and red from crying. Her mouth, instead of alive with possibilities, was set in a cold hard line of fearful hate. “Understood?”
“Yes, but—”
“Kyr’s mercy, girl. You want to get on a rack ship, you’ll need to look better than that. You get me Van Gast, and your uncle will be free, just think of that.”
“But how—”
He waved away her question. “His ship’s just coming into the delta. How you get on is up to you. I don’t really care. Van Gast has quite the reputation with the ladies. Use that, if you can pretty yourself up enough. Just give me everything you can, and as soon as you can. When I have his head, you have your uncle. Deal?”
She blinked back more tears but took a shaky breath and managed a nod. “All right. I know a place or two.”
“Good girl. Report to my sergeant when you have anything. You can go now. And I’ll be watching the ship myself, so no funny ideas.”
She wiped her eyes and left, looking ragged and worn. He hoped she’d make an effort. Currently she was the best hope he had, though he hoped for more.
* * *
Holden slid into his quarters and eased the door shut behind him, thinking, maybe even hoping, Ilsa might be asleep. Instead she sat in candlelit dimness in front of a small mirror he’d managed to find for her, brushing her hair.
He hesitated but sat on the bed behind her. Somehow it was easier to talk to her reflection, as though he could pretend she wasn’t real, just another one of his dreams. Dreamed dreams big enough for the world, Josie had said about him once, long ago before he and Ilsa had been bonded together. He had that dream now, and he didn’t know what to do with it. He was drowning in freedom.
He watched in silence as the brush swept through Ilsa’s chestnut swing of hair, unsure what to say, what to do. He wanted to say something, to breach the silence, the wall between them, but he couldn’t find the words. He suspected neither could she.
Freedom seemed to come with complications at every turn. His crew were jittery with it, and he was barely hanging on himself, but his complications were different. He’d been practicing doing everything one-handed and found it easier than he’d feared. He’d come to terms with being able to make a decision for himself, or had made a start anyway.
But Ilsa—she was his wife, and he didn’t know how to talk to her, what she thought, how they were supposed to do this. All their lives, their thoughts had been under the command of the mages who ruled the Remorians with magic and a silver bond that ate into your skin, your head,