It was the most uncomfortable dinner Mia had ever attended.
The good captain was seated at one end of the table in his cabin, dressed in a fine black velvet shirt, unlaced a touch too far. His mate BigJon sat beside him, propped up on a stack of cushions. Mister Kindly was draped around Mia’s shoulder at the table’s other end, and Eclipse was curled up on the floor at her feet. Ashlinn was sat to her left and Tric to her right, Jonnen sitting opposite BigJon to complete the set.
Ash had shed her sorority vestments, now clad in black leathers and a red velvet shirt. Tric still wore his dark robes, though his hood was pulled back, exposing his beautiful pale face, his black eyes, his saltlocks moving in a breeze no one else could feel. Mia still wore her leather gladiatii skirt and boots, but the good captain had been nice enough to loan her one of his black silk shirts to replace her bloodstained tunic. She quickly realized the scoundrel liked his fashion low-cut, and had to bend over carefully lest uninvited guests made an unexpected visit.
The ocean whispered and shushed against the hull, the gentle rise and fall of the Maid on the swell setting the crockery tinkling and clinking. Sunslight streamed through the leadlight windows, the Sea of Silence spread out in azure splendor behind them.
The silence around the table wasn’t nearly so pretty.
The good captain had put on a fine spread and seemed intent to impress Mia—though she’d not yet fully grasped why. After his initial fear, he’d acclimatized well to the notion she was darkin, slipping easily into the role of charming host. As the aperitifs were served, he kept the talk light, speaking mostly of his ship and his travels. His wit was so quick it might’ve been pure silver he was drinking. But it soon became apparent most of his audience weren’t in the mood for a Charming Bastard routine. Corleone’s small talk had sputtered, then died. And as the dishes were cleared in preparation for second course, the table descended into an awkward quiet.
Cloud Corleone cleared his throat. “More wine, anyone?”
“No,” Ashlinn said, watching Tric.
“NO,” Tric said, glaring at Ashlinn.
“Fuck yes,” Mia said, waving her glass.
Mia was on to her third. It was a fine vintage, dark and smoky on her tongue. And though she preferred a good goldwine—Albari if it was going, though in truth, almost any whiskey would suffice—she wasn’t quite rude enough to ask the good captain if he had any. She could get drunk on red just as easily, and turns of being cooped up together in that cabin had set everyone on edge. So drunk she intended to get.
“Well,” Corleone said, taking another stab. “How do you all know each other?”
Silence.
Long as years.
“We studied together,” Mia finally replied.
“O, aye?” Corleone smiled, intrigued. “Public institution, or Iron Collegium, or…”
“… it was a school for fledgling assassins run by a murder cult…”
“Ah.” The captain glanced at the shadowcat and nodded. “Private tutors, then.”
“SOME OF US BECAME MASTERS OF IT,” Tric said, staring at Ash. “MURDER, THAT IS.”
“That shouldn’t surprise,” she replied. “Given what we trained for.”
“A KNIFE IN THE HAND OF A FRIEND IS OFTEN A SURPRISE.”
“It shouldn’t be, if that friend thinks to come before familia.”
“Erm…,” Corleone stammered.
Mia drained her glass.
“Pass the wine, please?”
Corleone complied as the galley boy brought in the main and started serving. It was fine fare considering they were aboard a ship—sizzling lamb and almost-fresh greens and rosemary jus that made Mia’s mouth water despite the tension in the air. As Corleone began carving, the meat almost fell off the bone.
“I saw you best that silkling at the Whitekeep games,” BigJon said to her around his mouthful. “Won a strumpet’s cuntful of coin on you, too. Bloody magnificent, lass.”
“Four Daughters, BigJon,” Cloud scowled. “Mind your cursing at table, neh?”
“Fuck,” he said, biting his lip. “Apologies.”
“Again?”
“Fuck. Sorry. Shit … FUCK…”
“No, it’s all right,” Mia said, leaning back in her chair and enjoying the feel of her head spinning. “I was bloody magnificent. I trust you spent your cuntful on something fucking marvelous.”
The littleman grinned with silver teeth, raising his glass. “O, I like you.”
Mia raised her glass in return, downed it in a gulp.
“What about you, young don?” Cloud said, turning to Jonnen for a change of subject. “Do you like ships, perchance?”
“Do not speak to me, cretin,” the boy replied, toying with his food.
“Jonnen,” Mia warned. “Don’t be rude.”
“I will not entertain inane chatter with this lawless brigand, Kingmaker,” the boy snapped. “Further, when I am returned to my father, I will see him hanged a villain.”
“Well…” Corleone’s lips flapped a little. “I…”
“Don’t mind him,” Mia said. “He’s a spoiled little shit.”
“I am the son of an imperator!” the boy cried shrilly.
“But you’re not above a spanking! So mind your fucking manners!”
Mia glowered at the boy, engaged in a silent battle of wills.
“Ah…,” BigJon tried. “More wine?”
“O, yes, please,” Mia said, holding out her glass.
A more comfortable silence settled over the table as Mia got her refill and folk got down to eating. Mia had spent the last eight months dining on the various questionable broths and swills cooked up in the Remus Collegium—this was the first decent feed she’d had in as long as she could remember. She started stuffing her face, using more wine to wash her ambitious mouthfuls down. The lamb was delicious, hot, perfectly seasoned, the greens crunchy and tart. Even Jonnen seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Are you not eating, Don Tric?” Corleone asked. “I can have the galley fix something else if this displeases.”
“THE DEAD HAVE NO NEED OF FOOD, CAPTAIN.”
“And yet they insist on coming to the dinner table, regardless,” Ashlinn muttered around a mouthful.
“… EXCUSE ME?”
“Pass the salt, dwarf,” Jonnen demanded.
“Oi!” Mia thumped the table. “He’s not a dwarf, he’s a littleman!”
“No, I am a little man,” the boy said with a smug smile, pointing to BigJon with his fork. “He is a dwarf. And I will be taller tomorrow.”
“That’s fucking it,” Mia said, rising to her feet. “Go to your room!”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked. “I am the son of—”
“I give no fucks for whose son you are. You’re a guest at this table and you don’t talk to people that way. You want to be treated with respect, little brother? Start by treating others to it. Because it’s earned, not fucking owed.” Mia leaned forward and glowered. “Now go. To. Your. Room!”
The boy stared at his sister. His eyes narrowed. The shadows about him shivered and snapped like bullwhips, echoing the rage in his eyes. Some of the cutlery began rattling on the tabletop.
“… Mia?” Ash asked.
“… MIA…?”
In a blinking, the shadows turned sharp and pointed like knives, lashing out at her throat. Mia scowled, jaw clenched, wresting the dark from her brother’s grip with but a thought. He was furious, aye. But she was older. Stronger. Far, far deeper. Seizing control over them was literally akin to wrestling them from a child. And with a toss of her head and a whip of her will, the shadows snapped back into their usual shapes.
“I shall smile when they hang you, Kingmaker,” he hissed.
“Take a number and queue up, little brother,” she replied. “In the meantime, get your arse back to your cabin before I kick it.”
The boy’s lip wobbled as he admitted defeat. Cheeks pinking with fury. And without another word, he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind.
“Eclipse, could you keep an eye on him?” Mia murmured.
“… AS ONLY THE EYELESS CAN…”
The shadowwolf rose from beneath Mia’s chair and faded from sight. Mia sank back down into her seat, elbows to table, head in her hands.
“Littleman?” BigJon said into the silence following.
“Apologies.” Mia waved one hand. “If that offends.”
BigJon leaned forward and batted his eyes. “Will you marry me, dona?”
“Get in line, littleman,” Ashlinn smiled, squeezing Mia’s hand.
“JUST DO NOT TURN YOUR BACK,” Tric said. “ASHLINN DISLIKES COMPETITION.”
“Black fucking Mother.” Ash thumped her fork down, three turns’ worth of tension finally getting the best of her. “Must you take every opportunity to have a stab at me?”
“AN INTERESTING CHOICE OF WORDS, GIVEN WHAT YOU DID TO ME.”
“It’s called irony, Tricky,” Ashlinn snarled. “Old playwright’s technique. I’d have thought you an expert on drama, the way you’re laying it on.”
“LAYING IT ON?”
“Aye, a little thick, don’t you think?”
“YOU MURDERED ME!” Tric cried, rising from his seat.
“I did what had to be done!” Ashlinn shouted, rising along with him. “You said yourself the Red Church has lost its way! Well, I’ve been trying to take it down longer than any of you! I’m sorry you had to go, but that’s just how it is! And I stabbed you friendways, in case you’ve forgot. In the front, not the damned back. I can’t undo it, so what the fuck do you want from me?”
“A HINT OF REGRET? SOME SHRED OF REMORSE? FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND SOME SMALL PART OF WHAT YOU TOOK FROM ME?”
“Remorse is for the weak, Tricky,” Ash said. “And regret is for cowards.”
“YOU’VE GOT NOTHING INSIDE YOU, DO YOU? NOT A SHRED OF CONSCIENCE OR A—”
“Ah, to the ’byss with this…”
Ash shoved aside her plate, turned toward the door.
“Ashlinn…,” Mia said.
“No, fuck it,” the girl spat. “Fuck this and fuck him. I’m not going to sit and eat shit for something all of us have done. We’re all liars. All killers. ’Byss and blood, you were a sworn Blade of the Red Church, Tric. Unlike Mia, you passed your initiation. So don’t sit there and play the fucking victim when your own victims are in the ground, too!”
The door slammed for the second time as Ashlinn left.
The room fell silent. Mia toyed with her wineglass, running her finger around the lip. Ash’s words echoing in her head, along with the memory of her final Red Church trial. Called before Revered Mother Drusilla. One simple task between her and initiation.
Mia heard scuffing footsteps in the shadows. She saw two Hands swathed in black, dragging a struggling figure between them. A boy. Barely in his teens. Wide eyes. Cheeks stained with tears. Bound and gagged. The Hands dragged him to the center of the light, forced him to his knees in front of Mia.
The girl looked at the Revered Mother. That sweet matronly smile. Those old, gentle eyes, creased at the edges.
“Kill this boy,” the old woman said.
For all her bravado, Mia had failed that trial. Refused to take the life of an innocent. Clinging to the few shreds of morality she had left. But Tric had been at the initiation feast when Ashlinn betrayed the Church.
Which of course meant he hadn’t failed.
She looked up at the Hearthless Dweymeri boy. Into those bottomless eyes. Seeing his victims swimming in the dark. His hands not black, but red.
“I THINK I’LL TAKE SOME AIR,” he said.
“You don’t have to breathe,” Mia replied.
“I’LL TAKE SOME ALL THE SAME.”
“Tric…”
The door closed quietly as he left.
BigJon and Corleone glanced at each other sidelong.
“… More wine?” the captain offered.
Mia breathed deep and sighed. “Fuck it, why not…”
Snatching up the bottle, she leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the edge of the captain’s polished table, taking a long, slow pull right from the neck.
“You have … interesting traveling companions, Crow,” Corleone said.
“Mia,” she replied, wiping her lips. “My name’s Mia.”
“Cloud,” he replied.
“Is that your real name?” She squinted, suspicious.
“No,” he smiled. “You don’t get to know my real name.”
“What’ll you give me if I can guess it?”
He took in his ship with a sweep of his arm. “All you can see, Dona Mia.”
The girl ran her hand across her eyes, down her face, sighing again. Her head felt too heavy for her neck. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth.
“You can drop us off at Whitekeep,” she said. “Any of the two hundred silver you can refund would be appreciated. Whatever you think fair.”
“You mean kick you off the Maid?” The privateer frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“Well, let’s see,” Mia sighed, counting on her fingers. “I’ve brought two daemons and a deadboy aboard your ship. My brother and I are both darkin, and he’s also the abducted son of the imperator with what’s likely the whole Itreyan Legion chasing his arse. I implicated you and your crew in the murder of a handful of Luminatii, their crew, and the destruction of their ship.” She tipped her head back, guzzled the last of the bottle, and dropped it on the deck. “And I’ve drunk all your fucking wine.”
She hiccupped. Licked her lips.
“Good wine, though…”
“My brother’s name was Niccolino,” Corleone said.
“S’a nice name,” Mia said.
As if at some hidden signal, BigJon slipped down off his chair and quietly exited the room. Mia found herself alone with the brigand, save for the cat made of shadows still draped about her shoulders.
Corleone stood slowly, walked across to an oaken cabinet, and fetched another bottle of very fine red. Cutting the wax seal away with a sharp knife, he refilled Mia’s glass, then retired back to his chair, nursing the booze.
“Nicco was two years older than me,” he said, taking a swig. “We grew up in the ’Grave. Little Liis. Him, me, and Ma. Da got sent to the Philosopher’s Stone when we were small. Died in the Descent.”
Mia’s eyes sharpened a little at that. “My mother died in the Stone, too.”
“Small world.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she said, swallowing deep from her glass and trying not to think about the night Alinne Corvere died.
“Ma was devout,” Corleone continued after matching her swallow. “A god-fearing daughter of Aa. We went to church every turn. ‘Boys,’ she’d say, ‘If you don’t believe in him, why would he believe in you?’”
Corleone took another long, slow pull from the bottle.
“He could sing, my brother. Voice that could shame a lyrebird. So the bishop at our parish recruited him into the choir. This was twenty years ago now, mind you. I was twelve. Nicco fourteen. My brother practiced every turn.” Cloud chuckled and shook his head. “His singing around the house drove me mad. But I remember my ma was so proud, she cried all through his first mass. Cried like a fucking babe.
“And then Nicco stopped singing. Like his voice just got … stolen. He told Ma he didn’t want to be in the choir anymore. Didn’t want to go to church. But she said it’d be a shame on him to waste the gift Aa gave him. ‘If you don’t believe in him, why would he believe in you, Nicco,’ she told him. And she made him go back.”
The brigand took another swig, put his boots on the table.
“One nevernight, he came home from practice and he was shaking. Crying. I asked him what was wrong. He wouldn’t say. But there was blood. Blood on his bedding. I ran and got Ma. Said, ‘Nicco’s bleeding, Nicco’s bleeding,’ and she came running, asked what was wrong.
“And he said the bishop hurt him. Made him…”
Corleone shook his head, his eyes lost focus.
“She didn’t believe him. Asked him why he’d lie like that. And then she hit him.”
“Black Mother…,” Mia whispered.
“She couldn’t grasp it, aye? Something like that … the shape of it just didn’t fit into her world. But it’s a terrible thing, Dona Mia, when the ones who should love you best leave you for the wolves.”
Mia hung her head. “Aye.”
“Nicco jumped off the Bridge of Broken Promises four turns later. Bricks in his shirt. He’d been in the water a week when they found him. The bishop came to his funeral. Said the mass over his stone. Embraced my mother and told her everything would be all right. That the Everseeing loved her. That he had a plan. And then he turned to me, and put his hand on my shoulder, and asked if I liked to sing.”
Mia tried to speak. Couldn’t find her voice.
Corleone looked her in her eyes.
“That bishop’s name was Francesco Duomo.”
Mia’s belly dropped into the soles of her boots. Her mouth full of bile, lashes dewed with tears. She’d known Duomo deserved the murder she’d gifted him in the arena, but Goddess, she’d never guessed just how deeply.
Corleone stood slow, walked around the table, and, still looking into her eyes, he placed a familiar bag of coin on the table in front her.
“You stay on this ship as long as you fucking please.”