Chapter Eight

They left Malana and the awful bonnet behind, the latter floating somewhere in The Singsong’s wake, long gone to the depths along with the undergarments Lowen had bought for her. Winter had thought the man had more sense, snatching them up before Soule spotted them.

Lowen had gotten her two simple frocks that reached just below her knees, a tie to draw them at her waist, several plain pairs of small drawstring linen pants with wide turned cuffs like a Siblin boy would wear, simple button shirts, the material cool and comfortable. Winter eyed her butt in the pants as she walked across the deck, her hips swaying.

No, she was never going to pass as a boy, even if they bound her tits, which he didn’t want to do anyway. And there was her hair. Isidor wouldn’t ever agree to asking her to cut it. Isidor would stab him for suggesting it, probably. Winter gave a small chuff, finding his own thoughts funny, Isidor turning his head and sending him a narrow glance from across the deck.

#

When the sun was dipping on the horizon, they anchored. Winter came and got her and brought her to the stairs where Isidor was already sitting. Soule looked at them both a little nervously.

“We need to tell you something about Maren, my beauty,” Isidor said.

“What about him?”

“You know Maren kept a journal, Soule,” Winter said.

“Yes,” Soule said, wondering a little again why they sometimes asked the obvious.

“When Isidor and I read it, we learned something that Maren did, a terrible thing, although he didn’t know better at the time,” Winter continued, “and we haven’t told you. We don’t have much of an excuse except that we feared it would pain you and we were waiting for the right time, Isidor and I. But now we know there’s never going to be a good time to tell you.”

Soule realized. She looked down.

“I read his journal too,” she confessed.

She looked up. Winter was surprised, Isidor just as much. Soule took a deep breath.

“I didn’t tell you,” she admitted. “Father always told me his journal was private, but after he was gone I was alone there for a long time. I missed him. I thought I would hear his voice again in my mind if I read it. So one day I did.”

“You read all of it?” Isidor said, his eyes searching her face.

“Yes,” Soule said. “I didn’t understand all of it at the time. I know what he thought of me at first. I know he killed my mother because he didn’t know better. I know that he lied to me. Father did those things, but he loved me, too.”

“Maren shouldn’t have kept it from you, what he did,” Winter said. “He was shamed by it, you understand that, right?”

“Yes,” Soule said.

“I don’t know why we thought you wouldn’t read it,” Winter said, glancing at Isidor, who shrugged.

“We would have,” Isidor agreed.

#

Winter was at the helm, steering The Singsong into Minsk, their home port.

Minsk was the harbor city that ended at the huge iron gates of Luteri. Luterians were isolated in their clans. They had things to trade but were unwilling to deal with the world directly. Siblin did that for them in exchange for a permanent port and harbor town. Siblin ships docked on the west side of the harbor, sometimes for years.

Above the Siblin ships and their colorful canvases, there was a long path leading up into the trees not far. At the top rested a massive longhouse, a single high huge long room made of timbers, windows high to let in light, lanterns on the wall for night time. It was the only structure Siblin held in common. Inside was all framed in wood, her center pillars carved with symbols and art significant to Siblin, a thin raised pit for fire running through the center.

The Siblin Council gathered at the Longhouse, the various members of the council docking in Minsk. The Siblin Council kept records for their archives, the far wall of the Longhouse a huge series of high shelves holding the Library of the Dead, the journals of all Siblin gone before.

Winter glanced in the direction of the Longhouse as he came off the docks, but he didn’t go that way. He wanted Soule’s name to appear alongside theirs in the Siblin Ledger, not only legitimizing her adoption as Maren’s daughter, making her Siblin, but also giving Soule all of the rights of any other Siblin anthata. No Siblin would ever hurt her once her name was written there. Killing an anthata was the only crime for which the Siblin Council imposed death as a sentence, the execution carried out by the ones who lost her.

#

Ilse was the Siblin administrator of Minsk. His brother was Besh and they had two sons, not grown yet, Neter and Sevin. He and Isidor had made a plan for approaching the Council. Ilse was the first step.

Winter nodded to Siblin he recognized as he walked, avoiding those who wanted to draw him into conversation, winding through the dock to the main road in Minsk, passing shops, a smithy, all Siblin merchants. Isidor was on the deck of The Singsong keeping watch, Soule in the hold, less likely to be spotted. Winter was carrying Maren’s journal in his hand.

The road was wide, carts busy carrying cargo to the port, the buildings tall, made of plank wood, connected to the ones next to them, large windows and bright color paint, Siblin colors. Winter walked into the plain building on the right, clapboard siding, no sign because only Siblin came here and a rare Luterian, and they knew what it was. He found Besh inside.

“Winter Singsong,” Besh greeted him, the name of their ship acting as their surname. “Where’s Isidor?”

Besh walked around the table and opened the port log.

“He’s still on board,” Winter said.

“Are you here to declare The Singsong has docked?”

“That, Besh, thank you, but I’d also like to speak to Ilse on a Council matter.”

“Ilse is upstairs,” the man said. “Tell him to send our boys down, I’ll watch them.”

“Thank you, Besh,” Winter said.

He met the boys already coming down the stairs as he was going up, knowing their names but not which was which to greet them. The boys immediately turned straight around, going to the top and waiting. Siblin were a superstitious people, and they wouldn’t pass each other on a long flight of stairs any more than they’d knock more than three times on a door.

Winter looked at them as he came up, the boys around ten years old. He felt a wave, imagining Soule with their children in her belly, imagining them this age. It wouldn’t happen for awhile, he knew. The boys were sturdy, well made, one with long blonde hair, the other dark brown, knives at their waists and alert expressions, curious.

As soon as they could, the boys squeezed past him, clattering down the stairs loud. A blonde man put his head out the door at the top of the stairs.

“You’re twenty boys as much noise as you make,” the man yelled.

“Sorry, father,” one of the boys called back.

“Hello, Ilse,” Winter said, nodding when the man focused on him.

“Winter,” Ilse said, nodding back. “What’s it been?”

“Eight years or so,” Winter said.

Ilse nodded a little distractedly, turning around and going back into the room he had left.

“Come in. Where’s Isidor?”

“He’s on The Singsong,” Winter answered, sitting where Ilse indicated, taking off his hat and putting it on the desk. “We have business with the Council.”

Ilse sat down, leaning back in the chair. He and Isidor knew Ilse, had sat in this room before. Like many on the Council, Ilse was older, well over a hundred. Ilse had always been friendly, kind to them when they were boys. He had arranged their adoption to Maren.

“What kind of business?” Ilse asked.

“Maren’s dead,” Winter said.

Ilse grimaced.

“I regret your loss,” he said, nodding to him, Winter nodding back. “You know for certain? Maren’s been missing for—,” the man stopped, his eyes going up.

“Twenty years,” Winter supplied, putting Maren’s journal on the table. “Yes. We launched him on The Wandering Eye to be with his brother Dane. Isidor and I, we came to Minsk, in part, to give his journal to the Council to be placed in the Library.”

Ilse nodded, his glance approving, reaching over and taking it, setting it down in front of himself.

“I’m glad you found his journal and that he was launched by the sons he loved. Maren was a fine man,” Ilse said. “I knew him. Where did you find him?”

“He was on Nanine,” Winter answered.

“Nanine,” Ilse said, leaning forward. “In the mouth of the Brecca Straight?”

“Yes. There’s a matter in Maren’s journal that we think will interest the Council,” Winter said. “In those missing years, he adopted a daughter. We want to present her to the Council so her name can be entered in the Ledger, but we think the Council should read that part of his journal first.”

Ilse was obviously wondering what was so secret.

“How old is this daughter?”

“She’s grown. We think about twenty-three.”

“And instead of just telling me what it is, you want the members of the Council to read a portion of Maren’s journal before we meet his adopted daughter,” Ilse confirmed, giving him a sharp glance.

Ilse held a seat on the Council.

“Yes. Respectfully, if they would,” Winter said.

Ilse waited for him to explain why, but Winter didn’t say anything else.

“Where is this daughter now?” Ilse asked.

The question Winter didn’t want asked at this moment. He leaned forward.

“There’s a good reason, Ilse, for our request,” Winter said, evading the question, knowing Ilse would notice. “We’re not hiding anything that is not going to be revealed. You know we’ve always been respectful. Isidor and I, we’re honest, we work hard, we don’t cause trouble. We wouldn’t ask this if we saw another way.”

He was asking Ilse to trust him. And then he was going to essentially betray his trust. Winter’s stomach was upset. He still didn’t see another way.

“Am I going to find answers in this journal?” Ilse said abruptly.

“Some of them,” Winter said, mostly to avoid lying that would be remembered later.

“If you shake the Council out of its boredom in this heat and something interesting doesn’t come from it, they’re going to be mad with you.”

“Boring the Council is not one of our worries,” Winter answered honestly.

“And this daughter?”

“We’ll bring her to the Council when they meet next.”

“We planned to meet tomorrow night. Is that too soon?”

Ilse’s eyes were crafty. If Winter agreed, Ilse would know Maren’s daughter was on The Singsong and that they were concealing her from Siblin for some reason. There were no places outside of Minsk from which they could retrieve her in that time. Winter took a deep breath. It was fast, but it wasn’t bad for them. There were too many things that could go wrong, docked in Minsk with Siblin all around them and a siren in their hold they wanted to keep safe.

“Will the members have time to read what Maren wrote?” Winter asked, worried.

Ilse laughed.

“With that much mystery surrounding your request? They’ll be knocking down my door before you get back to The Singsong,” he answered.

“We appreciate the Council’s patience,” Winter said politely. “We have one more request.”

Ilse smirked.

“What is it now?”

“We want the Council to declare ban on The Singsong.”

All the casual friendliness and amusement left Ilse’s face. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.

“You know what you’re asking?”

“Yes,” Winter answered.

“You want the Council to declare The Singsong protected territory from other Siblin,” he clarified. “You think one or more of our people wants to do you or your family harm.”

“Yes.”

“You know that request is only made when there’s bad blood between ships, to protect the Siblin involved until the Council can resolve the dispute.”

“Yes.”

“You understand you’d be confined there, that other Siblin couldn’t board her. That the ban would stand only until the Siblin Council meets and no longer.”

“That’s our request, yes,” Winter said.

Ilse leaned back, staring at him.

“Who is your dispute with?” Ilse finally asked.

“I can’t say,” Winter answered, wincing.

Ilse sat back, his lips thinning. He shook his head.

“Without knowing why? Without knowing with whom you’ve found conflict?”

“Isn’t it better to head off trouble that might be prevented?” Winter said, tense. “Isn’t that the purpose of declaring ban, to give us time if things are complicated, to ensure things can be brought to the Council and aren’t resolved outside with bloodshed? We’re requesting it, Ilse.”

Ilse made a face at him. He looked out the window. He finally turned back.

“You and Isidor have really gotten yourself into something that deep, Winter?”

Winter winced again, nodding. Ilse was trusting his word, trusting their good natures. He and Isidor had a reputation as solid, honest traders, hard-working and reliable. Ilse wasn’t going to be happy with him once he read what Maren wrote, once he put it together and realized they were harboring a siren in their hold.

Winter wasn’t being dishonest. But Ilse was going to know he’d been manipulated. There was nothing for it.

“We’ll tell everything tomorrow night, I swear,” Winter said.

Ilse looked out the window again. Winter waited. Finally Ilse nodded. He got up and went to the door, Winter relaxing, relieved.

“Besh!” Ilse yelled down. “We need word spread!”

“Can I send the boys?” Besh returned.

“They’ll do.”

The two boys clattered just as loudly back up the stairs and were in the doorway in a moment.

“Father,” one greeted him, the other following. “Father.”

“Are you ready?”

Both the boys nodded, concentrating. Ilse spoke.

“The Siblin Council declares ban on The Singsong for today and the next day, done on the morning after. No Siblin can approach her or board her. Her captains and any passengers are to stay on board. The Singsong is confined to port until the ban is lifted.”

Winter looked at Ilse. That last wasn’t usually included. The information in that journal was about as explosive as it got. Together with what he’d told Ilse, the Council would know Maren had adopted a siren and that she was here now, in Minsk, mingling with their people.

If the worst happened and he and Isidor had to flee to open sea to protect Soule, they’d break the ban, and breaking a Siblin ban carried the second harshest punishment the Siblin Council could levy on a Siblin. Exile. But the ban also ensured no Siblin could board The Singsong before the Council heard them and met her.

“Thank you, Ilse,” Winter said, nodding at him and standing up, picking up his hat and putting it on his head.

Ilse had the boys repeat the message back one at a time.

“Off you go, then,” Ilse said, ruffling one head and then another.

Winter followed the boys out, turning at the top of the stairs and glancing back into the room, seeing Ilse pick up Maren’s journal and open it.

Time to get back to The Singsong fast.

“Leet and Havish Mockery,” he heard Besh say downstairs, greeting who had just came in the door.

Havish and Leet were here. Winter stopped on the stairs. Havish hadn’t mentioned intending to come to Minsk. For a moment, Winter wondered if they had worked out what she was, if it were all going to fall apart and himself face those brothers without Isidor to have his back. The Council might simply see it as Havish and Leet acting on common sense and praise The Mockery’s captains for putting a knife in his gut for bringing her here.

“You’re here to declare The Mockery is in port?” he heard Besh say.

“Yes, thank you, Besh,” Havish answered.

There was nothing for it, nothing but the stairs behind him. Winter walked quickly, coming down and into the downstairs room, heading for the door.

“Winter!” Leet said, spotting him.

Nodding to him like he was distracted and in a hurry, Winter opened the door, still walking, wanting to make it through the door before they said something in front of Besh about Winter’s anthata they’d met, disaster. He heard them coming up on his back, tensing, resisting the urge to look.

“What’s your hurry, Winter?” Havish said, coming up on his left side, Leet on his right.

Winter hated having one on each side of him. He shrugged lightly, scanning the street. Ilse’s boys would have started on the docks to spread word of the ban, that being the place most populated and where gossip traveled fastest.

“He wants to return to his anthata,” Leet guessed. “I’d be in a hurry as well if I had one like that waiting.”

“Enough, Leet,” Havish said. “Do you want to undo what we came to do before we do it?”

Winter glanced at Havish. They didn’t know. Not yet.

“We came to Minsk because we felt badly for troubling your anthata,” Havish explained. “We wanted to make sure you didn’t hold it against us. We’d like to learn if you and Isidor would like to sail with us.”

Winter’s brows went up. They were off the main road now and making for the docks, the brothers shadowing him. It made sense. He and Isidor had solid reputations. While these two had a good reputation for work, but were also known for being a little too reckless, a little too ready to fight, a little crude even for Siblin. Once The Singsong had an anthata, she became established, an attractive ally.

It wouldn’t be a bad thing for The Singsong, either. An alliance could gain both their ships new trade. And he and Isidor had history with the captains of The Mockery. It was an exchange of favors and goodwill that served everyone. The brothers had decided they wanted to share wind with The Singsong and were making the offer to travel together.

Now, of all times. They weren’t going to feel that way by tonight. They were almost there, arriving at the docks, then at the row that berthed The Singsong.

“Isidor and I, we’re happy for your friendship, Havish, Leet,” Winter said, nodding. “We run alone for now. We don’t take offense. We hope you won’t either.”

Havish looked away, not the answer they had hoped for. Winter looked to see Isidor on the deck of The Singsong. Isidor was watching Winter, already a small cleared space around The Singsong as people got word of the ban, that excited, prickly feeling of something up, of disturbance of the Siblin fabric, the wind shifting. Leet and Havish felt it, looking around.

Isidor’s stance was tense, obviously fighting coming to Winter. The ban was in effect. Isidor couldn’t leave the deck of The Singsong.

“Why would we take offense—?” Leet began.

“Havish! Have you heard?” a voice called from down the way, a man trotting toward them.

Havish turned, Leet with him, both of them stopping, Winter increasing his speed, still walking. He glanced. Leet and Havish had turned their heads and were frowning at him. Havish suddenly broke away toward him. Winter reached the gangplank of The Singsong, Isidor right on the other side, his relief to join his brother probably almost as much as Isidor’s relief to have him there.

Havish stopped short, honoring the ban. He looked up at Winter as Leet joined him.

“I hope we are not the reason for the ban, Winter?” Havish said, all humor gone from his face. “We are not looking for conflict with The Singsong, you know that, right? We thought you didn’t take offense?”

“You’re not the reason and we don’t take offense, Havish,” Winter replied, getting Isidor caught up. “It’s not about that. But I hope you understand, about your offer to run with us, why we don’t have an answer for you yet.”

Havish looked relieved. He nodded. If Winter and Isidor were into something, they might want to spare Leet and Havish getting involved. Havish and Leet made the offer anyway.

“Is there a way we could help you?” Leet asked, Havish nodding.

It was, again, sincere, and the offer made for friendship. Winter felt a genuine pang of regret. He and Isidor had spent time with Havish and Leet, rough as they were, had gotten close to them.

“Thank you, no,” Isidor said carefully. “Nothing’s changed, Havish, Leet, until you say otherwise. We’re pleased for your offer. We hope you’ll remember our friendship.”

“Of course,” Havish assured him, frowning, the men staring a little, puzzled, and then moving off with a nod.

“I’m glad to see you back,” Isidor muttered.

Winter put his hand on Isidor’s arm briefly, his brother locking it with his. All Siblin brothers were close, but he and Isidor had been orphaned twice, and before Soule they only reliably had each other.

“Ilse gave us the ban, I see,” Isidor noted.

“The Council will read that part of Maren’s journal,” Winter said. “The ban is in effect until the Council meets tomorrow night. But we can’t leave.”

“We’re stuck in dock for the length of the ban?” Isidor said, dismayed.

“If we want to remain Siblin,” Winter muttered.

Banishment from Siblin society was nothing to take lightly. It wasn’t just that they were Siblin and didn’t want to lose their people. It would affect their trade. They would lose all their contracts and finding new ones would be much more difficult.

They’d lose the Council’s protection. No Siblin would ever speak to them again. They would be forbidden from their traditional dress, forbidden from wearing their Tals. Their names couldn’t be removed from the Ledger, but they’d be crossed out, and their childrens’ names would never be written there.

#

Siblin response to the news that there was a siren aboard The Singsong was quiet at first because most of them didn’t know it yet. Ilse would have known as soon as he began to read those journal entries, and would be cursing Winter and wondering what to do.

Winter could almost feel the older Siblin’s man’s anger from where he sat on the high quarterdeck, Winter’s leg up and his hand hanging off it, a prisoner on his own ship, keeping watch. The members of the Council would know next. Winter didn’t think they’d spread word openly.

Nevertheless, like a quiet tide, Siblin ships began to depart Minsk harbor, their sails filling, leaving dock. More Siblin, seeing the exodus, followed suit uneasily, anthatas and children packed aboard, a general sense that even if you didn’t know what was going on, you did what the ship beside you did because they might know better even though nobody was talking about it yet. His people had survived a long time, had learned to keep a weather eye, and they didn’t stay in a place if it didn’t seem safe in that moment.

Winter tensed as he recognized Ilse at the top of the docks, who began striding his way, his long legs eating up the distance, his attitude and general mood easy to spot even from afar. Just because Ilse couldn’t board The Singsong to stab Winter didn’t mean he couldn’t yell at him from the dock. Winter got up, going down the stairs and to the rail as Ilse turned the corner.

Winter looked around. The dock had cleared around them like they had the plague, which they might, as far as people knew. Ban was imposed on a ship for quarantine as well. About half the Siblin ships were leaving the port, and definitely all the ones around them, nobody missing the fact that there might be a relationship between the ban on The Singsong and the general feeling it was time to leave Minsk for awhile.

Ilse stopped in front of him, making no effort to board, his eyes hot.

“I’m not going to break the ban because I can’t,” Ilse said, furious at him, yes. “But I want to know. Is it with you? Do you have a screecher alive on The Singsong? Did you bring a fucking siren here? Here?”

“Soule is with us, yes,” Winter replied.

Isidor joined him from the hold. Ilse looked between them. He made a frustrated gesture, running his hand through his hair.

“I feel like I can’t trust my own judgement anymore. I never would have expected this from you two, never. What are you doing?”

“You read the journal, Ilse,” Isidor said.

“I read as far as learning that thing was here,” Ilse ground out.

Ilse had stopped reading it and reacted, as they feared. It was good they got the ban.

Havish and Leet. Winter spotted them, his stomach sinking, Isidor making a disgruntled sound beside him, the captains of The Mockery making their way on the dock toward The Singsong. Winter doubted they had all of it puzzled yet. But two big pieces were about crash into one another.

“She’s not what you think,” Winter said, turning back to Ilse, nothing for it. “We wouldn’t have brought her to Minsk if she were.”

“Who’s not what Ilse thinks?” Havish said, arriving and hearing it, Leet behind him.

“Soule,” Winter replied.

They were in it now.

“Your anthata?” Havish said.

Winter looked at Ilse, whose face had gone blank, watching the two pieces hover near each other, about to come together and everything break loose.

“You brought your anthata on board with a siren?” Ilse asked, confused, not able, Winter knew, to put those things together yet in his mind.

“Where is there a siren?” Havish said immediately.

“Soule is a siren, Havish, and our anthata,” Isidor said, and there it was. “But she’s not what we’ve been led to believe. She’s gentle. She would never hurt anybody.”

Havish began to laugh and stopped. Leet stepped up beside him, his eyes going to Isidor.

“We met Soule,” Leet said, confused. “She’s not—.”

Leet suddenly stopped and Winter and Isidor watched as both the brothers put it together in their minds. Her beauty. The dress and bonnet. Her strange manner. Havish looked enraged, his face twisting, glaring up at them, Leet looking appalled. Ilse was still standing there, blinking up at them as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You captured a screecher and you’re fucking it and calling it your anthata?” Leet said.

“You met her, Leet,” Winter said, seeing where that was going. “She’s not mindless. She’s a person like you or me. Think about it. You talked with her. You didn’t even know she was a siren.”

“It can talk?” Ilse exclaimed, still catching up.

Havish was making his way to the gangplank, Leet on his heels, pulling their knives. Winter cleared the rail, Isidor coming next to him, both of them getting ready, their hands on their knives. They knew the brothers, had seen them fight. It would be bloody. But Leet wasn’t as strong a fighter. Isidor would gut him quick and they’d set on Havish together and tear him up between them.

“Don’t you take another fucking step, Havish, nor you, Leet. The Council has declared ban,” Ilse said, not caught up with the situation completely, maybe, but seeing that. “You can’t board The Singsong and they can’t come off.”

“They’re harboring a fucking screecher, Ilse!” Havish raged, walking back to him. “Leet and I are going to gut it before it kills everyone in earshot!”

Ilse walked until he was almost nose-to-nose with Havish, never mind the open blade, both Winter and Isidor aware that Besh wasn’t with him, that Ilse faced those brothers alone. And they couldn’t invite Ilse on board for his safety, couldn’t come to his aid without breaking the ban. Bad, this was bad. Ilse bristled, pissed, just as aware of the situation.

“The council has declared ban on The Singsong,” Ilse barked, repeating himself.

“Ilse,” Winter said tensely, alerting him to Leet, who was beginning to circle him.

Ilse looked at Leet, his teeth coming up, not retreating but keeping both the brothers in his sight, his eyes shifting, lighting with bloodlust.

“If you try what you’re thinking, Leet Mockery,” Ilse said. “If I don’t stick you, Besh will hunt you down. He won’t ever stop until one of you is dead and then he’ll cut the prick off the other and leave that one to live out the rest of his pitiful fucking existence alone as a sexless twain tusk.”

At that, Leet paused, his eyes going to Havish. Winter blinked, reminding himself never to cross Ilse and Besh. Fuck, they already had. Havish’s eyes shifted to Isidor and Winter. He pointed his knife at them in turn, his face twisting with hate.

“If it takes me the rest of my life, I’m going to skin that little screecher alive and if you try to defend it I’ll make you listen to it scream and beg.”

Winter didn’t even realize he had moved forward. He leaned down to Havish, feeling his own face twist.

“Keep a hard eye on your stern, Havish,” Winter promised, grinning at him fiercely, “because The Singsong is going to be hunting your wake.”

Havish surged forward, Leet grabbing his brother’s jacket, shoving him away down the dock. Havish turned to glare, but he was going. Winter watched them, his eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched, still feeling rage coursing through him.

“That went well,” a voice said, sarcastic.

Lowen stepped out of the shadows at the end of the dock.

“I thought I was going to have to step in there with you, Ilse,” Lowen remarked vaguely, tipping his flask.

“Lowen,” Ilse said, greeting him, nodding, giving a resentful glare at the retreating backs of the brothers. “I thank you for having my back. Those two are rough.”

“Always have been,” Lowen grunted, putting the flask back in his pocket, coming to Ilse’s side, looking up at Winter and Isidor.

Ilse squinted up as well, gesturing at them to Lowen.

“I can’t decide if they’ve done something so foul I don’t want to think about it,” Ilse said in disgust. “Have you two been smoking nhaka?”

“I asked them the same thing the other night when I met their anthata,” Lowen said casually, nodding.

Ilse whirled on him.

“You knew about this?” Ilse accused, approaching him close. “I saw you just this afternoon and you didn’t say a thing! I could have killed it and saved all this and now we have the ban! What the fuck were you thinking, Lowen?”

“I was thinking that Winter and Isidor have the right to present their anthata to Siblin,” Lowen answered, his eyes not as friendly. Then he looked up. “Is Soule there, boys? Does she want to say hello to an old tusk?”

Ilse was staring at Lowen like he’d grown another head. Lowen’s eyes were steady on Winter’s, urging them to do this. Winter thought about it. Lowen was right. Angry as he was, if they could win Ilse to their side—.

Winter looked at Isidor, who nodded, going down to the hold.

“You’re bringing it out?” Ilse hissed, trying not to be heard. “Tell me you’ve got it bound and gagged, Winter. Tell me you’ve got that fucking thing under control.”

Winter turned his head as Isidor led Soule out of the hold by her hand. He watched Ilse’s eyes widen as she came into view. She was in a dress, barefoot, looking sweet, her hair braided over her shoulder, a straw hat Lowen had got her on her head. Ilse froze, his hand twitching toward his knife, Winter breathing, watching him, ready. Ilse could throw that knife. It would be breaking the ban, but he wasn’t sure Ilse was thinking clearly yet.

“Hello, sweet girl!” Lowen bellowed up at her, Ilse shooting him a brief appalled glance.

Soule saw him and her face lit. She came closer to the rail, Winter moving with her, watching Ilse. Soule smiled down at Lowen. Yes, she liked him.

“Hello, Lowen,” she replied.

Lowen rocked back a little on his heels at her greeting, Ilse just looking shocked to hear her speak.

“Haven’t eaten these boys yet, I see,” Lowen said, recovering.

Soule’s mouth twitched and she sent him a glance, recognizing he was teasing her. Ilse was looking between Lowen and Soule like he couldn’t believe it. He probably was having difficulties.

“What’s your favorite thing to eat, sweet girl?” Lowen asked her. “In case I want to bring it to you.”

“A berry tart, please,” she answered.

Lowen laughed again, delighted.

“You’re so pretty. If I could come up there, I’d sit you on my knee. Berry tart it is, sweet girl. Do the clothes fit you well? I had to guess.”

“Yes. Thank you, Lowen.”

“This quiet set of eyes at my side is Ilse, Soule. Will you say hello to him?”

Soule’s eyes shifted to Ilse and then away. Winter wondered how much she’d heard, if she’d caught the threat Havish had made. Winter’s jaw clenched. Isidor came to her, behind her, putting one hand on the rail on one side of her, the other casually at her waist. Winter stayed where he was, watching Ilse, seeing his shudder when Isidor touched her.

“Ilse is a part of the Siblin Council, Soule,” Isidor said to her so they could hear. “They’re the ones you will meet tomorrow night.”

She looked up at Isidor. Winter saw Ilse see her ears, squinting at them. She looked down at Ilse.

“Hello, Ilse,” she said.

Ilse blinked. He turned to Lowen.

“Teeth?” Ilse said.

“Like ours,” Lowen answered.

“It’s really a—.”

“Well, now, I didn’t ask to see, Ilse,” Lowen said a little sarcastically, “but they say so.”

“It speaks Siblin.”

“She wears Maren’s Tal, Ilse, if you missed that part. She was raised Siblin.”

Ilse turned to look at her again, his eyes on her Tal. He turned back to Lowen.

“It can’t sing?” Ilse said low.

Lowen looked up at her.

“Ilse wants to know if you can sing, Soule,” Lowen said.

Soule’s eyes shifted to Ilse.

“Yes.”

“Would you?” Ilse demanded, challenging, his eyes locking on her.

Soule frowned at him. She looked at Winter. She leaned forward.

“Does he want me to sing?” she said doubtfully.

“What did she say?” Ilse demanded.

“She thinks you’re maybe asking her to sing, Ilse, but she’s not sure. She doesn’t understand your question,” Winter said, turning to Soule. “Ilse is asking if you would sing us a song that would hurt us.”

Soule turned to Ilse, frowning again.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Soule gave Ilse the same look she’d given Lowen.

“I’m their anthata,” she said carefully, like it was obvious and she thought maybe he wasn’t so bright.

“What does that mean to you?” Ilse demanded.

Soule was surprised again. She looked up at Winter and then to Isidor and then back at Ilse. She looked uncomfortable.

“Isidor and Winter are mine.” Soule answered. “I’m theirs. They love me and feel me inside their bodies. I love them.”

“You love them,” Ilse confirmed.

“Yes.”

“Who was Maren to you?” Ilse demanded.

“He was my father,” she said, her hand going to her Tal. “He raised me.”

“You were able to perform the ritual?” Ilse said abruptly to Winter.

“Yes. We recognized her, felt her before the ritual, Ilse, exactly like they described to us when we were boys,” Winter said. “It’s not something that could happen if it weren’t right. We just want to present our anthata to the Council like any other.”

“Like any other,” Ilse scoffed, running his hand through his hair again.

Ilse made a face at him, turning away. He turned to Lowen, scowling at him.

“The boys brought me to meet her,” Lowen said right away in response to that look, anticipating him. “I asked the same questions. I got the same answers.”

“She’s a siren,” Ilse objected loudly, gesturing, then glanced around himself as if someone might have heard.

“You know it doesn’t matter, Ilse,” Lowen replied. “She’s their anthata. They have the right to present her to the Siblin Council. She wears Maren’s Tal. Her name belongs in our Ledger.”

Ilse threw them all a look like they were crazy and suddenly stalked off, his back stiff.

“Don’t despair, boys,” Lowen called up cheerfully. “That’s just Ilse. He’s thinking about it. Give him time.”

“We don’t have much,” Isidor answered, leaning on the rail. “The Council meets tomorrow night.”

Lowen bit his lower lip as he did when he was plotting.

“I’d hoped to have a bit more time to talk to the Council members privately, but Havish and Leet are a problem. Ilse will put an eye on them, since Havish made a threat. Sooner seems better.”

“Will you be well, Lowen?” Winter asked, worried.

A lone tusk, no brother, no sons to defend him. With The Singsong under ban, he and Isidor couldn’t protect him like they wanted. And people knew The Vainglory had run with The Singsong more than she had any other. Lowen was as close to a relation as they had. Havish knew it, Leet did.

Lowen squinted up at them. He slipped his hand into his pocket and found his flask, taking it out and unscrewing the cap, deliberate. He took a sip, making a face.

“What am I, helpless?” he said indignantly.

“No, Lowen,” Winter said.

“We don’t want to bring trouble to you,” Isidor said.

“It’s a little late for that, boys,” Lowen said, taking another sip and replacing the cap, putting it back in his pocket. “Don’t you worry about me.”

Lowen turned to walk away, his rolling gait.

“Goodbye, Lowen,” Soule called, leaning forward, looking after him.

Lowen turned around, walking backward, giving her a dazzling smile.

“I’ll see you soon, sweet girl. Don’t you worry about anything.”

#

Isidor looked out to sea, dusk coming fast. Things were in motion now. It wasn’t going to be easy waiting through tomorrow. Isidor went and lit the lantern. They stayed there, the breeze coming up, smelling of the ocean, cool.

Winter came closer to Soule, who was still standing at the rail, Soule leaning against him a little. Isidor came behind her and took off her hat, beginning to unravel the strands of her thick braid, silky in his hands. They would go to the cabin in a moment, anticipation tensing his belly, a wave of desire.

Winter’s eyes narrowed, looking at something on the docks. Isidor looked where he did.

Havish and Leet stepped out a small bit from behind a stack of crates, on the docks not far, watching them, their manner casual. Isidor’s eyes roamed, finding them, better hidden. Two Siblin brothers they didn’t know were not far from Leet and Havish.

Ilse had put an eye on the captains of The Mockery as Lowen had predicted. Isidor met Leet’s eyes and shifted them. Leet’s eyes followed, bumping his brother’s shoulder when he saw them. Havish turned to look, his fists clenching, his eyes going back to Winter’s on the deck, everything promised between them.

Isidor knew he and Winter were going to hunt and kill the brothers as soon as all of them were away from Minsk. Havish and Leet had threatened their anthata. Siblin might be confused at the moment, but that didn’t matter at all.

Havish came out into the open, no longer concerned with sneaking around. He crossed his arms, planting his feet, glaring at Winter. Isidor sighed, finishing loosening Soule’s braid. Winter wasn’t going to retreat into their cabin with that glaring match going on.

Isidor fanned her loose hair around her, running his hands through its thick weight, beautiful. He glanced at Havish, who didn’t seem to notice he had broken his glare at Winter and was looking at Soule, as was Leet. Isidor’s eyes shifted. The other two brothers were just as entranced, looking at her.

Winter saw it and smirked. He took Soule’s hand, leading her up the small set of stairs to the forecastle deck, easy to see from the dock. Isidor followed, knowing what Winter was thinking because he knew what he was thinking. If Siblin were so curious, if they wanted to know if she was a real woman under her dress, if they wanted to know that the ritual had been completed and she was truly their anthata, they could oblige, the perverts.

#

Soule followed Winter up the stairs to the quarterdeck, Isidor behind her, wondering what they were doing. Isidor and Winter were getting more and more tense, at odds with Siblin, Leet and Havish making threats. They couldn’t leave. Her father had told her about the Siblin Council. They could do anything they wanted to Winter and Isidor. Maren had said that Siblin would accept her, but her father had lied to her before. Winter and Isidor had also thought that Siblin would accept her, but now they didn’t seem so sure. She was tense, worried.

When they got there, Isidor, behind her, caught her arm and stopped her, turning her around. He cupped her face, leaning down, kissing her gently. Kissing her that way. She knew then. Soule leaned into him, sensing his desire, her own hunger coming.

“It’s warm, little siren,” Winter said close behind her, his breathing deeper, both of them aroused.

Soule turned, sending him a glance, Winter’s eyes intense, making her shiver a little. She felt his hands at her waist and cooler air on her calves, her knees, and then her thighs as Winter pulled her dress up.

“Maybe we don’t go to the cabin just yet,” Isidor said in front of her, his eyes on the rising edge, now at her hips.

Soule glanced at the dock nervously as Winter lifted the dress more, her belly and breasts showing and then over her head and off her. Soule crossed her arms over her breasts as her hair settled around her.

“What if someone sees?” she said, glancing at the dock again.

“Would it bother you so much if they did?” Winter asked her, his voice low, taking her hair and twisting it, putting it over his shoulder.

Soule felt a stab of anxiety, a wave in her belly, her hips squirming a little. Isidor’s eyes went there, giving her a small, knowing smile that made her shiver again. Winter reached from behind her and took her hands gently, uncrossing them, pulling her arms behind her tight, holding her.

Isidor stepped closer to her, his eyes on her breasts. He reached and took her nipples in his fingers, pulling and squeezing, tugging. Soule felt a jolt of pleasure that went straight between her legs, whimpering with it. She squirmed her hips again, her head falling back on Winter’s chest.

“Will you do this for us?” Isidor said softly.

It felt good, what he did. She wanted to, and they wanted it. That part of her opened, her need rising. Winter’s mouth went to her throat, her heart beginning to pound, Isidor’s fingers on her nipples sending small surges of pleasure through her. Soule cried out softly.

“Yes,” she said.

Winter stepped back. Isidor took her arm and turned her gently so she was facing the dock. She tensed a little, remembering.

“Don’t think about it, my beauty,” Isidor said softly behind her.

She shivered as Isidor’s arm came across her shoulders from behind, holding her, and his hand drifted down her belly and slipped lower, pushing to touch her sex. She spread her legs a little, and then a little more. Isidor’s fingers slowly slipped into her, his thumb rubbing, her breath catching over and over.

He relaxed his hold and his other hand went to her nipples as she began to move her hips, nothing she could stop, pulsing on his hand. Isidor’s sex was behind her in his pants, pressing on her, hard, Isidor thrusting to rub on her. She wanted it, her body wanted them, and that part of her that hungered needed it now.

Isidor withdrew his hands, Soule making a sound of protest. She was turned around. Isidor had stepped back and was pulling off his shirt. Winter was in front of her now, naked. He lifted her straight up, bringing her to the rail, her arms going around his neck, her legs around his waist. She felt his sex against her thigh, rigid. She tried to wiggle closer.

“You’ll get my cock, little siren, don’t you worry,” Winter said low.

He was leaning her body backward, clearing her hair. She felt the rail against her upper back, her shoulders and head off the edge. Winter’s arm was around her waist low, supporting her, her legs still wrapped around him. She felt his other hand slide up her belly between her breasts and go to her throat, circling it, squeezing. Soule’s head fell back, her knees coming up, spreading her legs, offering herself, her hair falling back on the outside of the rail. She was looking at the port upside down. She heard Winter grunt in satisfaction.

Winter’s hand left her throat and moved to her breast. He pinched her nipple, and then the other. Soule felt the tugs, pulsing, between her legs aching. Her lips parted, panting, her eyes heavy.

She felt Winter’s hand slip down to rest on the hair between her legs, his thumb pressed into her, finding her sensitive nub, rubbing. She cried out with the sensations as Winter’s teeth went to her nipples, biting, the pain sharp, arching with the pleasure of it.

Soule felt herself relaxing, everything hazy, her body going limp. Her eyes unfocused, the lights blurring, all of her feeling the sensations, straining against his thumb, offering her nipples to his teeth. She strained again, her thighs shivering, her pleasure building. Winter stopped, straightening.

She felt Winter pull her up gently, supporting her, her hands coming around his neck again as he cupped her bottom, lifting her. He kissed her, demanding, his fingers digging into her bottom. He broke the kiss, setting her down on her feet and turned her around so she was facing away from him.

She felt his hand on the back of her neck, Isidor in front of her sitting on the rail, and then Winter brought her mouth to Isidor, to his sex, bending her over. Soule squirmed, excited, licking from the base of Isidor’s sex to the tip, loving the feel of it, the taste of him, the silky heat. She started over again as Winter let her neck go, Isidor’s sex pulsing against her tongue, finding the ridge and following it up as he throbbed, swirling around the head of his sex and taking him into her mouth.

Soule shuddered with pleasure. Isidor was moving his hips, exhaling, his desire so delicious, the erotic feeling of him in her mouth. He opened the place inside her at the same time, feeling so similar, feeding her. It was all pleasure and then Winter touched her between her legs behind her, stroking up and down her sex.

Sensation went all through her. Soule whimpered, arching, spreading her legs. She wanted him to fill her, needed Winter’s sex. She felt him behind her. She’s dragged herself over his hardness, wiggling on him.

Winter smacked her bottom. It brought his desire, making it taste thick in her mind, rich, making her cry out around Isidor’s sex. She wanted more. He smacked her again and again, Isidor pulsing in her mouth, their desire increasing, hers following, all of it pleasure, gaining the sharp edge they liked, that they both always wanted so much.

She felt Winter’s hands on her hips and she stilled, shivering. She braced her hands against the rail and pushed Isidor deep into her throat, bringing herself down and drawing Isidor out as Winter pushed his sex between her legs.

Isidor’s sex pulsed as he thrust deep, all his breath leaving him, her throat closing around him, making it more for both of them. His sex flexed in her mouth again, silky hardness, tasting of him, Soule shivering again. She drew him out, inhaling, and pushed him back in again.

“Fuck, Soule,” Isidor breathed above her.

Soule found a rhythm, Winter’s sex stabbing deep in her, rubbing that place, his want filling her. He thrust as she pulled Isidor out of her throat, pushing Isidor in again when Winter pulled out. Isidor’s pleasure was rising sharply, Winter’s was, the smell of their desire wonderful, Isidor’s taste, making her squirm with pleasure, Winter thrusting to fill her sex again.

She felt Winter’s fingers dig into her hips, heard his uneven breathing. She fed from their desire, but she craved their lust. The most delicate part of her unfolded for it, a sensitive place flowering open as she felt her sex pulse, Soule’s nipples aching, her sex as sensitive.

She felt Winter reach around and touch the sensitive nub at the top of her sex and everything went away, all her thought, just keen pleasure in her mouth, in her sex, in her mind, all of it blending into one thing. Her thighs began shaking.

Winter’s thrusts became uneven, deeper, his breathing fast. Isidor grabbed the hair at the back of her head and pushed himself into her throat, sending her somewhere else, so good. Isidor pulled back so she could breathe and thrust again. Soule whined helplessly, muffled.

All of it arrived at once. Winter’s pleasure touched that sensitive place as he began to come. For her, when he did, his pleasure was like her body-pleasure but even more, his fingers on her sex causing her to climax at the same time that Isidor came in her throat, his pleasure doubling the other.

Soule went rigid, jerking, unable to give voice to it, swallowing Isidor’s pleasure in both senses, feeling Winter give his, filling her. Winter cried out. Soule strained, lost in it, and Isidor touched her ear, running his fingers around it as Winter reached down and pinched her nipples, thrusting deeper and holding.

Soule closed her eyes, the pleasure reaching a plateau and holding there. She was what they called coming, but for her it was receiving, taking. She was inside, driven there willing, both of them feeding her, the sharpest pleasure. She swallowed around Isidor, unable to tell the difference between his pleasure and the slippery liquid in her throat. She didn’t ever want it to stop.

Since they had first made her come around Winter’s sex, first torn through and opened the entrance between her legs, opening the other one, the one that fed, they had filled this place in her. It felt so good she stopped moving, unable to do anything in that moment, cresting it, all of her nerves alive. She would give anything for this, anything to feel like this.

Then she was pulsing, mindless sensation, satisfaction like nothing else, Isidor crying out and shuddering. He grunted, releasing into her again, Winter holding himself deep in her, flexing a last time. The warmth came with his spending, the sense of fullness, of rightness and wellbeing. They all floated in it for a moment. Isidor leaned back on the rail, panting, Winter breathing fast behind her.

Soule drew Isidor out of her throat, catching her breath. After a moment, Winter pulled out of her. She straightened, unsteady, Winter’s arm coming around her from behind as Isidor came off the rail in front of her, cupping her face and kissing her. Isidor’s kisses were sensual, making her stomach flutter.

When they turned her around, Winter’s kiss was demanding like it always was, her nipples tightening. Then she felt Winter lift her, carrying her, and he was walking down the stairs, following Isidor, who was gathering their clothing. Isidor opened the door to the cabin, all of them going through. Isidor shut it behind them.