Deadhouse Landing

‘No, you will.’ He slapped his hands together. ‘Now I must prepare for tomorrow.’

Dancer set down the glass. Great – he got to deliver the happy news. ‘Tomorrow then.’

Kellanved nodded absently, his thoughts already elsewhere.

*   *   *

Tattersail and Mock were having a private dinner in the hall; until recently such a thing was rather rare, as dinners were usually all-evening affairs where Mock and a raucous group of his select captains and officers would drink, trade stories, drink more, fight drunken duels, make up, and end up singing drinking songs long into the predawn light.

Tattersail would always excuse herself early from these gatherings and retire to their quarters. But even there sleep would be hard to come as the echoes of their laughter and cheers would reach even into the bedchamber.

And so she’d put her foot down with Mock that every so often they would sit together for a civilized meal – just the two of them. And as usual he’d complied, kissing her hand, murmuring, ‘What would he do without his Tattersail?’

This evening, despite definite orders from Tattersail that they were not to be disturbed, a liveried servant pushed open one leaf of the double doors, slid within, and approached. Currently, the livery consisted of bright purple velvet with gold trim, Mock having been very impressed by such a combination flaunted by a visiting foreign dignitary from some backwater in Genabackis lands.

Mock drained his sixth or seventh glass of wine and gave Sail an apologetic shrug, as if to say: Matters of state, my dear. For her part, she wished he didn’t drink so much. Especially as it did his performance no favours in bed.

Mock addressed the servant. ‘Yes?’

The lad extended a tube of horn, sealed with a dollop of bright blue wax. ‘Message from Nap, m’lord. Just arrived by cutter.’

Mock’s brows shot up. ‘Ah!’ He yanked it from the lad and waved him off. He examined the seal, squinting, then showed it to Tattersail. ‘See that? Kings get to do things like that. They have rings for it, you know.’

‘Yes, Mock.’

He broke the seal and drew out a small scroll of fine creamy vellum. Struggling rather, as he was only marginally literate, he read the message it contained. Then he let out a great laugh, slapping the page, and regarded her, winking. ‘There you go! Brother regent he calls me! He proposes a joint raid to seal our pact. A dawn raid on Cawn – at the equinox.’

Sail mentally did the maths. ‘That’s in four – no, five weeks’ time.’

Mock nodded. ‘He’s obviously granting us time to refit and prepare.’

Yes, Sail reflected sourly – the emissary must have seen the sad state of the men-o-war. ‘Do you trust him?’ she asked.

Mock was pouring himself a fresh glass. ‘Trust him? He’s a king! He has to be good to his word. It’s all reputation, you understand.’

‘I understand that,’ she answered, insulted. ‘What I mean is … what if it’s a trick? A ploy to draw you out.’

‘A ploy?’ He lowered the glass from his mouth, regarded her in the manner that irritated her so – as if she were a child. ‘Tattersail, dear. You heard the stories of the civil war that raged across Nap. The capital burned. Entire fleets scuttled in defiance of his rule! He’s weakened.’ Mock threw out his arms expansively, as if aggrieved. ‘He obviously can’t pull off a raid like this alone and is proposing cooperation as a demonstration of faith. Plus,’ and he tossed back his glass, ‘he knows I want revenge on those damned Cawnese merchants.’

‘Exactly…’ Sail muttered. It still troubled her; and yet, did one not have to take risks to make any advances? And was she not considering a raid herself? ‘Well,’ she answered grudgingly, ‘I would prefer it if it were us alone.’

Mock smoothed his long moustaches, grinning. ‘Of course, dearest. And you will be there to keep any eye on them. Any sign of treachery and they’re yours.’

She narrowed her gaze. ‘And you as well, yes?’

The proposal seemed to have caught him unprepared. He sat back, threw an arm over the rear of his chair. ‘Well … it will take all vessels and captains. There will be none to spare. And Tarel himself will not be accompanying his force, I assure you of that!’

‘Then you will outshine him.’

The idea obviously pleased Mock. His smile grew, and he nodded, stroking his moustaches once more.

At that moment there came shouts from the doorway. Some sort of scuffle. Tattersail thought she heard something about not being put off.

Mock yelled down the length of the main hall in a very un-kinglike manner: ‘What is it, dammit!’

One leaf of the double doors opened and the same liveried servant slipped in. With him came the shout, ‘The puffed-up bastard better see me!’

Mock rolled his eyes. ‘Is that you, Geffen?’ He waved for the servant to admit him. The lad spoke to the guards and moments later a tall lean fellow was admitted, straightening his shirts and belt where weapons had obviously been yanked away.