That hadn’t been there earlier, he was sure of it. He sloshed a good measure of brandy into the glass and sipped at it while he studied the slip of paper.
His name was written in a bold, sure hand on the front. That narrowed the sender down. Most racks could read and write—except Josie and Skrymir, because most Gan considered learning their letters to be outlandish and never bothered. But again, while most racks could read all right, writing was a stick-your-tongue-out-in-concentration affair, and they kept to writing their names and maybe the odd rude word or two to scrawl on outhouse doors. Van Gast managed a bit better, because as a captain he had to, but this writing was the hand of someone who wrote well and often. A hired scribe? Best open it and find out.
He scanned it quickly, saw the name at the bottom, and read it again.
Van,
I need you to meet me at the Godsquare, by Herjan’s temple. Sunset.
Josie.
Van Gast rubbed at his breastbone, at the itch that had started there. His little-magics, his trouble bone. And just what sort of trouble? Josie couldn’t write, though he supposed she could have got someone to do it for her. Only why would she give the game away by hiring a scribe? Pretending to hate each other, that was half the fun for her. Well, and for him. Besides, it had always helped them scam the living daylights out of all and sundry. If she was giving that up, it had to be something big, something important. Maybe something dangerous and stupid for him to thrill over, like scamming the Yelen.
Only…only this wasn’t like Josie, not at all. Or not like the Josie she had been. Van Gast hiccupped against the burn in his chest. Only one way to find out. Either way, he’d see Josie. He cast a look out the window. Not long till sunset—already the sun was lowering toward the sea, lighting up all the little shanties of the delta in red and orange, making them seem almost attractive. He sipped his brandy and considered. Best not go too obviously as Van Gast. Not at the moment, no matter how much he enjoyed giving the guards the slip. He needn’t go overboard with it, because the guards wouldn’t know what he looked like.
He transferred his few bits and pieces to the less gaudy shirt he’d bought for spare, a deep green that was also handy for slipping into the shadows. Same with the breeches—a plain and dull brown—before he buckled on his pistol and sword, hid a few knives. It only took a few moments to scrape his hair back into a pigtail, and there, he looked just like a merchantman’s crewhand. Except for the bright red boots, but there wasn’t much he could do about them, not having any others, and he’d die and go to the Deeps before he braved Estovan barefoot.
He considered going out via the deck, but Holden would be bound to ask questions, raise objections about him going inside the city walls, off to where the danger—and thrill—was tenfold. Best not to worry him. Instead, Van Gast slipped out the window, down a rope and onto the jetty before, with a jaunty whistle, he strode off along the wharf as though he owned it.
* * *
As the sun approached the horizon, Holden left the crews to their meal below. Gilda was holding court among a drove of new admirers and Tallia slid in among them as though she belonged, laughing at the more risqué talk and fielding the over-friendly hands of the newly hired racks. She made Holden ill at ease somehow, with her effortless smile and her sunny enthusiasm. He wondered if he had little-magics like Van Gast whether they’d be itching right now, and why.
He made his thoughtful way along the deck, thinking to talk to Van Gast. He wanted to be talking to Ilsa, but he still couldn’t quite grasp the words he needed that would make everything all right between them, that would broach the ice that had grown around them. At times he wished he still had the bond on, because then he’d have no need to think on it.
The first mate told him Van Gast was in his quarters and he went there first, hoping to settle his mind about Tallia. He knocked on the door and, when there was no answer, peered in. Peculiar. Van Gast’s new clothes were strewn carelessly across the