dark ceiling, letting the movement of the ship lull him, the familiar sounds. The faint wash of water against the hull, the creak of ropes, the calls of the lookout as he sounded the depths in the dark. Guld’s hesitant words as he used his scrying magic to see the sandbanks before they were beached on them. The whisper of Ilsa’s breathing, the smothered sound of her secret tears and his own heart, wishing he dared to hold her, soothe her, kiss all her fears away as he had once, when they knew they belonged to each other. Wishing he knew what she wanted, that she wanted him. That he could make her happy.
* * *
In the relative cool just past dawn, before the glaring sun rose to burn off the mists that crept over the Est River and coiled in the streets like cautious thieves, Van Gast gave the order to tie up. He leaped off the ship before the gangplank reached the jetty, ignoring a shout of protest behind him. For the first time in maybe ever he was glad to be ashore rather than afloat, back among people and places he knew instead of on a ship crewed by ex-slaves, their minds still bound by a lifelong habit.
The time getting here had been torture—a thumbscrew of boredom, a hot brand of grayness, of sameness. He wanted color and noise and excitement. He wanted to get these gray Remorian clothes off and find a really bright shirt, some garish breeches that fitted snugly and a pair of boots he could hide his knives in. He wanted to run from guards with a fizz of fear and joy in his blood, to con and steal and twist till his pockets ran with money, and then spend it all on booze and gambling. He wanted things as they had been before, to take the stupid-but-exciting over the sensible-but-dull, always.
He wanted all those things, and Estovan—vast, sprawling down-and-dirty Estovan—was the place for it, for everything and anything. He strode along the jetty toward Mucking Lane, a racketeer haven full of the soft chiming of Forn’s bells, a riot of drunken racks, brothels, gambling houses and fences who’d buy and sell almost anything and ask no questions more distressing than “How much?”
First things first. Clothes. He couldn’t be a rack, couldn’t be himself in these shapeless gray Remorian clothes. Especially if he wanted to make a good impression on Josie. He took a deep breath of free air and regretted it when he got a lungful of the solid smell of brackish water, rotting seaweed and too many people to count all jammed up close.
He needed to be quick, to find a shop before they closed in the heat of the day. In Estovan, where the midday sun was a nail to pin you to the ground, business mostly took place at night, or in the cool of dawn and sunset. Daytime was for sleeping. The night was for trading, or twisting. He left Mucking Lane with all its many delights behind him and headed for Stitch Street before the sun grew too strong. The brothels and gambling houses gave way to traders, tanners, sail-makers, scry-merchants, gunsmiths and armorers. The streets were full of a press of people that delighted him, made him feel alive again, him again so that he almost laughed aloud with it.
He risked a sneaky dip here and there, just to test that he’d not lost his touch, and came up with two silver seals and a nub of carved ivory, a devotional to the goddess Kyr, a request for mercy. He slipped that back. Kyr had been merciful to him of late, and he needed her to carry on being merciful.
As he got closer to the city walls, he curbed his hand because he wanted to keep it. The trade council that ran Estovan, the Yelen, were vociferous in keeping it crime-free to attract more trade. Their guards were sharp-eyed, well-armed and completely unbribable. Shame really.
When he got to the entrance of Stitch Street, where the crowds massed ever tighter, his euphoria at being back wore off. Enough that he began to notice an odd undercurrent, a strange taste to the atmosphere. Not enough to make his little-magics itch, but enough to make his steps wary, to have him look around and really notice.
There was something odd about the flow of people, about the people themselves. One or two Estovanians made sure they avoided his path. Not