feet, sliding along the marble floor, bells jangling, eyesight blurring with colors, sounds making no sense.
Skrymir picked him up by the hair, dragged him upright and got him with a slap like being hit by a door, a solid blow that would have sent him to the floor again if his hair wasn’t trapped in a fist the size of a melon.
“Answer me then.”
Skrymir’s deep voice echoed round Van Gast’s head, and he had to concentrate to understand. The game, play the sodding game, that’s all it was. Whatever the fuck that was. Go with it, with her. Go with the twist and hope like fuck.
He grinned up at Skrymir, trying for a leer. When he answered it was through lips already swelling, on a tongue tinged with blood. “A demonstration, how trading works in Estovan. A little grease to slick the wheels, eh? We could swap, if you like? I’ve got a concubine tucked away in the delta, fabulous soft hands, she could—”
Skrymir sent him flying with a force that felt as if it took Van’s jaw half off. He propped himself on his hands and tried to stand up, but his feet appeared to belong to someone else. Kyr’s mercy, if this was a game, Skrymir was taking it just that tad too seriously.
Then the game lost all its fun. Booted feet surrounded him, dyed the dark green of the Yelen palace guard. Worse even than those that patrolled the city, or so rumor had it. Look at one the wrong way, and the next decade was spent in the dungeons.
Van Gast looked up, wiped away a smear of blood from his lips and saw Rillen approach with a sly grin that would put a shark to shame.
Rillen stopped just out of Van Gast’s reach and his soft voice seemed achingly loud in the sudden silence of a hundred merchanters calculating what was going on, what it meant, how they could profit from a Gan ambassador falling out with his trading partner. Van Gast could smell the greed like the pig fat in his hair—a greasy smell that made him want to retch. He might steal a lot, but not for the cash, for the thrill. Whatever he stole he generally frittered away, having no interest in keeping any, except his little retirement fund that would help him and his crew if ever they needed it. He hadn’t even missed it when Josie stole it with his ship, because it was her and the ship he missed, not the money. This was different. This was greed for greed’s sake.
“My Lord Brimeld, I—” Rillen began.
Skrymir didn’t give him the chance to finish. “This, this bastard was assaulting my wife’s honor.”
Rillen turned his flat shark eyes on Van Gast. “Is that so?”
“I demand that you do something about this, Rillen. I don’t care what your laws are, I will—”
Van Gast didn’t like Rillen’s smile. Smug and knowing, superior. He wasn’t all that keen on the words either.
“Oh, that will be my pleasure, my Lord Brimeld. I’ve been wanting to catch Van Gast for some time. Should I hang him or have him nailed to the walls of Oku’s temple?”
Van Gast’s name dropped into the silence of the atrium like a cannonball.
Oh, shit on a sodding stick. He risked a glance at Skrymir, saw the sudden hesitation, soon covered by bluster. Josie recovered better, but Van Gast could tell she was shaken by the way her lips parted, the widening of her eyes. She’d been expecting to reveal who he was, for the bounty, not have Rillen know already. Had he recognized Van Gast? Not likely, not under all this getup. Not unless he knew a lot more than he should. Traitor on the ship. Gilda knew nothing about Mr. Ibsen, and neither did Tallia… Find the lady, but which one? Too late.
Skrymir managed to speak first. “Van Gast? Are you sure?”
Rillen nodded to four of his guards, who picked Van Gast off the floor. One took his pistol and sword, another yanked his arms behind him and the subtle click of cuffs was the sound of freedom lost.
“Very sure,” Rillen said. “I have it on a firm authority. You’ve been duped by a master rack, Lord Brimeld. I’m sure we can arrange another trader to help you in your negotiations.”
A jerk of his head and the guards yanked Van Gast toward the rear of the atrium. He caught one last look of Josie before they thrust him through a door,