Sail also knew that no state recognized the man’s right to issue such letters. But this was of little concern to Mock, the self-styled Marquis of Malaz. A title no state acknowledged either. When any ruler was forced to speak of him, Sail knew he was usually referred to as ‘that damned outlaw of Malaz Island’. And she was certain that in private their language was even less flattering.
She was at the bottom of the wide stairs that opened on to the main hall and thinking of heading to the kitchens for a late breakfast, when she caught sight of something that nearly made her trip and fall. She grasped hold of the stone balustrade and stared at the person who had just come in – was that really …
Aged, yet tall and lean, with an aristocratic air, her thick long mane of dark hair shot with streaks of grey – by all the daemons of her youth! It was her.
Sail stalked across the hall. She had to stop herself from pushing up her sleeves and raising her Thyr Warren as she went.
‘Agayla!’ she called. ‘What are you doing here?’
The willow-thin woman turned, raising a brow, and Sail experienced that same old sensation of being looked down upon. Her teacher and mentor offered that too-familiar indulgent smile. ‘Why, Jay, what a pleasure to see you. Still here, I see.’
‘What do you mean, still here? Of course I’m still here! And it’s Sail now,’ she added, then hated how petulant that sounded.
Agayla shrugged. ‘Well, one never knows the vicissitudes of nobility, does one? Especially the men.’
‘I am mistress of this Hold, I’ll have you know.’
‘And where is your master?’
Sail stuttered, tongue-tied as always by her old teacher. She cleared her throat and began again, ‘Mock is elsewhere. May I help you?’ But Agayla had turned away and was now gesturing to the door, inviting in two burly workers who carried over their shoulders a large roll of cloth. ‘And what is this?’ Sail asked.
Agayla crossed her wiry arms. ‘My commission, of course. A tapestry for the main hall.’
Great gods! I’m going to have to stare at her work over dinner? Sail collected herself, crossing her own arms. ‘A commission? Truly? Your work will be a wonderful addition to our Hold.’
Agayla regarded her for a time, her lips compressed. ‘Jay … why are you here? There are academies in Itko Kan that would take you in an instant. You are wasting your potential here.’
Sail let her arms fall. A record. Back to the old argument in less than two minutes. She turned away, sighing. ‘Agayla – I will go to the mainland. But I will arrive as the Marquessa of Malaz.’
The old mage snorted her scorn. ‘Meaningless titles. You can achieve far more than such pretty baubles.’
It took a strong effort to control herself, but Sail managed, swallowing her anger. ‘Auntie, thank you for all that you have done for me. But with respect, it is no longer any of your business.’
The old woman’s gaze narrowed, and Sail briefly recalled her youthful dread of this woman’s temper. ‘It is my business, Jay. Nurturing this island’s talent is one of my duties – among others. And I would be negligent if I allowed a promising student to waste her time hanging on the arm of a cheap brigand.’
Sail felt her own expression harden into a frozen mask. She inclined her head in dismissal. ‘You may hang your tapestry, weaver. Good day.’ She turned her back and walked away.
*
She found him at the east wall battlements, overlooking the coast and the city harbourage just to the south. An older man, she well knew: grey at his temples, but still hale. Pirate admiral – marque – who had herded this unruly island of privateer captains for years. Fought two wars at sea against Nap and the kings of Itko Kan, and now wore a corset beneath his shirts and vest to maintain his lean figure. Mock, commander of the three men-o-war that ruled the southern seas: the Intolerant, the Intemperate, and the Insufferable.
Mock indeed.
He turned as she approached, smiling, and rather self-consciously brushing back his moustache. ‘Tattersail, my Thyr witch. How are you today?’
She pressed up against him. ‘Well. What brings you up here? Planning?’
He ran a hand down her waist to her rear and squeezed her there. ‘Indeed. There is word of a convoy heading out of Cawn for Unta. We cannot let that pass us by without challenging it.’ He kissed her brow. ‘The captains would be very reassured if you would accompany them. Their fearsome battle-mage, Tattersail.’
‘I’m sure the captains would be far more reassured if you accompanied them.’
He drew away, leaning both elbows on the stained limestone of a crenel. ‘I wish I could. But you know the moment I leave the captains will raise their eyes to the empty Hold and wonder: Why shouldn’t I sit there?’ He chuckled then, letting out a long breath. ‘Funny. Just like me. I wanted nothing more than to make this place my own. But now it’s as though I’m a prisoner. Not daring to leave…’
This direction of talk made Sail strangely uncomfortable. She took his arm. ‘You’ve gone on forays before.’
‘Yes. When I was younger. But now, with every passing year, these new captains become ever bolder. Well…’ He kissed her brow. ‘Will you travel on board the Insufferable in my stead?’
‘Of course I will.’
He squeezed her shoulders. ‘Thank you, Sail. I rely upon you a great deal.’
And I will not let you down. You will see. ‘When do we go?’
‘In a few days. Lie in wait off the Vorian coast, yes?’
Sail nodded. Yes, that rugged mountainous coastline was a favourite hunting ground. ‘And what of the Napans? Surely they will make a play for any convoy.’
Mock held out an arm, inviting her to take it, and started for the corner tower. ‘Nap remains in disorder. It just may be Malaz’s turn to rule the coasts. Then we will have them, Sail. All recognize Nap as an island nation – why not Malaz? Imagine that, yes? Mock, King of Malaz?’
Sail squeezed his arm tight. Yes. And Tattersail, Queen of Malaz.
Imagine that.
*
The deputation arrived outside his open threshold at dawn. All five knelt to one knee in the dust of the Street of Temples, awaiting his attention.
He let them sweat through the morning while he sat cross-legged before the sarcophagus that was his chosen altar, and prayed to his god. A god few prayed to, and then only in extreme need or exigency. A god ignored by most yet escaped by none in the end. Hood. The Grey God. The Dark Taker. The god of death itself.
In time he raised his head, straightening his back and setting his palms on his knees. Nara, who had been waiting just to one side, offered a wood platter bearing a light meal of yogurt, bread, and thin beer.
Bowing his thanks, he backed away from the altar and ate, sword across his lap, sitting on the stone threshold of what was once – and remained for all practical purposes – a mausoleum.
Through all this the five still did not raise their cowled heads.
Brushing his hands clean, he stepped out on to the street, and adjusted his sword at his hip. ‘Yes?’
The foremost of the five inclined his hooded head even further, then straightened, head still bowed. Only the tip of an iron-grey beard showed beneath his hood. ‘Lord Dassem. We come seeking a boon.’
‘And you are?’
‘We are chosen deputies of these lands’ largest congregations of our lord the Grey Walker.’