he was a Remorian, that no one would cut his purse or try to rob him—or worse—for fear of the bond he’d lay on them in return. Now it was just him, and that churned his head, made him try to find the old comfort in patterns, in straight lines. No comfort there anymore, not now his head was free. All was whirling chaos.
Find more crew, Van Gast had said. They were far too short-handed, what with the men killed or gibbering. Another half dozen had decided that racketeering wasn’t for them, and Van Gast had sent them on their way with a fat purse and a wish of luck.
So, find an inn and some racks and get them aboard with the promise of money. Holden was used to the way people looked at him, the fear, the wrinkling of the nose at the smell of Remoria, the smell of the bond. Yet this time it was different. These looks were accompanied by surreptitious hands on swords, knives or guns. Wary, fearful, but not afraid to fight back. Not anymore.
Finding a crew was more trouble than Holden had expected. They were refused entry in three inns, and at a fourth a wholesale riot had almost broken out at the sight of Remorians in the midst of a more usual brawl.
Finally, at the fifth inn, they made it past the entrance without outright hostility. Holden pushed through the door and was greeted by a shocked silence followed by muttering and dark looks. A couple of chairs scraped back, tankards were lowered and the barkeep reached under the counter. Holden made it to the bar without getting a stab in the back, which seemed encouraging.
The barkeep nodded at him but kept his hand on whatever it was under the counter. A pistol probably, or a club. “We don’t want none of your lot in here, but I’m a reasonable man. You walk out now, we’ll let you.”
Now the trouble would start. If he was Van Gast he would have said some glib lie perhaps, or grinned and flirted with the little barmaid and got her on his side. But Holden would never be a Van Gast. He could barely be a Holden.
“I don’t want trouble either. I just need some crew.”
The club came out from under the bar, and the barkeep slapped it into his hand menacingly. “I said out, before I call the guards.”
Holden was aware of movement at his back—a surreptitious shuffling, a scrape of chairs, the thunk of tankards lowered to a table in unison. The swish of a blade released from its sheath, a pistol cocked stealthily. Indecision gripped him. To leave would show fear, an admission of failure that Van Gast would laugh at. To stay would probably mean dying. He wasn’t Van Gast. He didn’t choose the stupid over the sensible because it was fun. He raised his one hand in a hopefully reassuring gesture. “We’re going.”
He backed away, his eyes on the patrons of the bar and the weapons they held at the ready. His two crewmen stayed close and they made it to the door with only barbed comments on cowardice and madness to wound them.
Out in the street, the looks they got were no better. He couldn’t go back to the ship empty-handed. He had a purse full of gold sharks, enough to buy a dozen racks ten times over. Almost any rack would sell his soul for enough cash. There had to be somewhere he could find some—
A hesitant hand on his arm made him turn. “Are you really a Remorian?”
The little barmaid from the inn, looking pert and interested. Not disgusted or afraid.
“Yes, I am. But we’re free men now. Nothing to fear from us.”
“You’re looking for crew?”
Holden hesitated but any help was welcome, here where the world was strange and he was stranger. A decision, something he was still getting used to. “Yes, a half dozen at least. I can pay good money.”
She looked up at him with wide dark eyes like a midnight tide. “I can fight, and I know one end of a yardarm from the other. I’ll sign up.”
“You will?” Holden frowned to himself. Remorians didn’t take women on ship as crew, but racks did. Fully a third of Van Gast’s old crew had been women, and of course Josie was a rack, one of the most renowned. Everyone else looked at Holden and his crew with such distaste and fear. He was out of choices.