…decide to try and convince her to join you.

“You could always…”

You let your words trail off, unable to sustain them. Are you really going to be that cruel? This woman has been through enough without you dragging her into your business. Your mouth flattens to a line. Then again, despite her assurance that she can get away on her own, you can’t help but feel a little responsible for her. Perhaps she could act a lookout? She could certainly hide in the dark, but is she likely to sit still while you act? She looks at you expectantly.

“I mean…”

A bright while tooth appears for a moment, revealed by the tug of her smiling mouth before it drops back to seriousness.

“You have a way off dis island, yes? An escape?”

“I…Yes?” Where is she going with this?

“Perhaps, if you let me come wid you in your mission, we could leave togeder when it is done?”

Relief fills your heart, her offer taking away your somewhat impolite need to ask. Was it impolite to her? You think for a moment of what you know about the southern empire; the hot sun baking men black and slaves that are not slaves. You think of all you have heard about their great artisans, and machines, like the huge wands that roar **** from city walls. How they see the stars not as the wondrous dance of the gods but as something they can understand through glass tubes with lenses in them. How they have buildings for books that any reader can visit, but fill them mostly with nonsense stories and fantastical tales. How they only worship a single all powerful god. Savages and heretics for sure, but perhaps not all such bad people. This woman at least seems to understand the social graces.

“That would be most welcome,” you give a weak little smile back, letting it drop as you look at her. “Er, that is, if you’re up for it?”

She stands tall, without wavering, but after what you’ve seen of her you can’t imagine her doing anything like running or fighting. She shifts her weight from foot to foot and adopts a pensive expression.

“My duties as a Mikalocia means my task must come before what I want. If helping you gets me off dis place, I will do it for my task. If your mission is to kill da Cat-Chan Washkin Muritik den I get want I want as extra.”

That doesn’t really answer your question, and the way she said it, like a lawyer talking his way through loopholes, gives you pause. Also, what is a Cat-Chan? Or a Muritik? Probably questions for later.

“Ok, but I mean, if you’re, er, physically…up for it.”

She holds something dark before you, shining silver along the edge. Your stiletto, held by the blade and proffered to you handle first. It takes a moment for you to recognise it, looking through crossed eyes as it hovers before your nose.

When did she take that!? It was in a sheath strapped to your leg! She shouldn’t even know about it, let alone have had an opportunity to fish it from the rip in your trousers.

“More dan you are, milk girl.”

Her grin is wide and too predatory to be friendly, though you think it’s meant as such. You take the knife from her carefully, both convinced and worried. First things first.

“We need to get you some clothes.”

She takes a deep breath, as though to highlight the rise and fall of her exposed chest.

“I will live wid de cold.”

Cold? It’s a hot summer night! The water from your swim here had long since evaporated, and you feel sweat slick your underarms as an unwelcome replacement. Decency was more what you were going for. Then again, the south is supposed to be a hot place. Coronac itself is hotter than the principalities and you had been shocked at the loose and revealing dress the summer could bring. Though, if the southerners were truly lax with such things, you’re sure you’d have heard more about it from the sailors who traded stories for drink.

You let it pass without comment. Unless you went back for your dark clothes, you doubt there is anything that could hide her better than her own southern skin. You go to the door you entered by, peeking out and making sure your guides are long gone. The hall is clear, and a nearby door carries a pale light through its cracks. Sure enough, night waits outside, with the moon high above to light the way.

Your shadow follows, tall shape showing nothing but eyes -their whites glittering in the darkness. An alley stretches in two directions, barren of life and littered with the husks of buildings long since abandoned. Several look ready to offer safe harbour, should your walk be interrupted; only the one you exited and the adjoining carries any signs of life, with more noise than light signalling their occupancy. You move in the direction your guide pointed before, or close to, traveling down the street and sticking to the shade where possible. The armour about your chest rustles, the metal ends of its tassels clicking together and its leather half sleeves squeaking with every swing of your arms, and the helmet wobbles on your bun distractingly as you look around. Considering the advice given, you’re not sure if you need it, but you keep it as is for now as you travel.

You soon come to the end of the alley, returning to the main street down a squeeze between buildings and finding a gaggle of many voices waiting for you. They talk and grumble in dissatisfied tones, loitering ahead, and you make your way into the shadowed mouth of a nearby building, keeping yourself as unseen as possible. The woman following behind makes no noise; her bare feet are well suited to stealth, but the ground is not suited to bare feet. You wince as you consider the small stones and broken discarded things that litter the area, buried in churned mud dried to odd angles.

You move to a hollow window and see them, fifteen in all, standing about and talking idly. All wear red and white clothes which carry the bulges of weapons hidden beneath them. You think you know why. Two of the men are those you saw before the inn in that standoffish confrontation with the red and yellow men. They may have been outnumbered at the time, but no longer, and the group’s attitude tells of a shared affront.

If the crews come into conflict then all the better, but that doesn’t help you now. Right now, they block a set of large stone gateposts marking a path that continue up, no doubt to the ‘small manor house’ and the waiting captain, and you wear red and yellow; the colour of their affront.

Perhaps you could find another way around? Though you don’t fancy the idea of getting lost in dark woods. Men fitted for such action tend not to stand about all night anyway, and they get ever more agitated with each muttered conversation. Waiting would be best; you sense you won’t have to wait long. You look to your shadow and find that you cannot see her, only sense a presence behind you. Not even her eyes are visible. Perhaps she is looking away? Of course; seeing such men again is no doubt a difficult thing for her. With nothing better to do and the need to keep her calm, you move from your squat at the window and reach out a hand, finding her shoulder after a little groping. You guide yourself closer, until you can whisper as needed, and she snaps her head to you at the last moment.

Her eyes sparkle with every speck of leaking moonlight in the dark dilapidated hovel, glittering with cold fires of rage.

“If I see dem, I will kill dem.” You’re taken aback by the whip crack whisper and the venom it contains. “But for you, I will not see dem.”

You nod your head: her running out without a weapon and doing something foolish in the middle of the village would not end well for either of you, and you feel a little weight being lifted. She didn’t break down or run away, and it’s clear that she is capable of shepherding her hate towards more constructive ends, even if she needs to trick herself to do it.

You whisper, “we wait” back at her, barely making a noise, and you hear her sigh as she nods, similarly relieved that you made the right choice, or at least understood her own.

It strikes you that, in the dark of this building and near the group of angry pirates, you are very close to this naked woman. You look away, thinking of the odd moments that lead you here. You’ve already killed two men on this island, and your breast still feels bruised from the armoured one, yet it’s the odd encounter at the inn that sticks in your mind. The last time a naked woman was this close, she kissed you, deeply and intimately. You touch your mouth, still feeling the wet streak between it and your ear, where her whispered words still linger. Shortly after, you had rubbed your shorthairs against those of the woman you’re with now; crotch to crotch in a pretend penetration. Needless to say, this night was not going how you pictured it.

You shake your head and wipe your face, but it does nothing for the things you’ve seen. You turn back to the woman to distract yourself, pressing the side of your head to hears and whispering almost soundlessly into her ear.

“How long until they know you’re gone?”

Her wire hair is fuzzy and tickles your nose. Despite her talk of cold, she still smells of unwashed sweat, though in fairness, it may not all be hears. Shame rises as you feel the desire to take a step back, remembering the glut of filth around her neither’s, so you **** yourself to stay purposely close instead, undeterred by things she cannot help.

She takes a moment to respond, face unseen and unreadable as she whispers back into your own ear. “I was surprised you came in.” She swallows, heard only for its closeness. “Dey were done wid me before sunset.”

You shouldn’t have asked, but your glad you did; another little weight lifted.

The men all decide to move on, trudging purposefully down the street towards the inn or the docks. The further away the better as far as you’re concerned. You move out from hiding and travel up the path, past the gateless stone gateway and up a slight incline of a road. Trees line the sides for a short way, until they come to a thinning stop, diminishing to saplings encroaching on a wide and untrimmed lawn. With the village just out of sight, the gravel path curves up to a large building, far bigger than the ‘small mansion’ described to you. It has two floors -ground and upper- with only a few windows lit with life. As you get nearer, you can see that you are approaching it from the side, with the single path splitting as it reaches for the buildings front and back, leaving the length of the building only suggested by the breadth of the lawn and gardens continuing for quite a ways in the distance. You’d guess the building is a large rectangle in shape, with you at one of the thin ends. It could take hours to search such a building.

As you’re considering the enormity of the task ahead, your partner in justice pulls you to the side, dragging you into the shadows of the woods and bushes. You follow, walking carefully across dry branches and old leaves while wincing in sympathy for her bare feet. She comes to a stop and you stop with her, watching her look about until satisfied. You see why. This spot is deep enough that you’re both well hidden behind bushes on all sides, yet can see the departed path and mansion house, visible through the trees and foliage. It’s a good spot.

“See?” She points to the building’s roof, and after a moment of following her finger, you see a shape silhouetted in the night sky. You’d consider it a chimney, were it not making a slow pace along the roofs edge.

You nod, acknowledging the guard and voicing your concerns.

“How do we get in?”

The isolated position means you can talk relatively normally, without fear of discovery, but the mood still keeps you quieter than needed. Perhaps you could distract the guard long enough for your friend to sneak in, or you could try and make a run for it when the guard passes? That leaves the front door or the back, and both likely guarded. If you go to the front, you could better catch them unawares, but the back is probably less well watched. If you could get a weapon for your friend it would be good.

“We wait.”

What? You don’t dismiss it, but you see a fair few problems with that approach.

“What if Captain Washkin leaves? If she gets back to her ship there’ll be no stopping her.”

“I tink de Can-jo bitch sleeps dere.”

“You think?” You try not to say ‘tink’ or ask what a Can-jo is. It sounds very much like an insult.

The woman shrugs in the darkness. “If not, then yes, she goes to her ship,” she points to the path over to the side, “on dis road.”

That…makes sense, you suppose. The woman goes on, watching the building and planning as though she’s done so a thousand times before.

“We wait until she leaves. If she doesn’t, we attack early morning, when de moon is set. If she does, we attack on de road.” She considers for a moment, before sheepishly correcting herself. “I attack on the road,” she looks uncomfortable, “if you will let me.”

You remember how easily she took your dagger from you and it’s a hard request to deny; she does seem better skilled. However, your kill count since coming here is two, while her legacy is undeniably one of capture, not to mention what came after. A moment is spent looking hard into her eyes, weighing and judging as best as your limited experience can. Eventually, you nod. The prize can be split, and you tell yourself that the bounty is not what you are here for anyway. The captain’s **** is what matters, and with your ego removed from that, the choice is obvious.

Moonlight dapples through the branches above, and you see once again the impossible smile. She doesn’t thank you, but instead nods respectfully.

You look around and see a small flat stone, and after dusting some dried twigs off it, you sit down, facing both the woman and the gravel path you departed. She takes a similar position, though squatting to avoid sitting on a bare and no doubt sore behind, facing you and the mansion. And so your sentry begins.

After a moments silence, your thoughts turn south, a remembered taste playing across your tongue. Why are you remembering that, of all things?! One hand had been on your chin, tipping your head up to face her, but had the other been at your neck? It felt like it was. And how did she get you to open your mouth? Was it her tongue? Why did it feel so-

Gah! You shake your head, freeing it for a moment of nonsense thoughts, and you consider that a little conversation may help. No doubt the woman across from you has far filthier memories marching through her mind in this unwelcome silence.

You think for a moment, wondering what to say, and soon find that you’re not sure what not to say! You’ve never met a true southerner. The closest you’ve got is a few encounters with merchants and traders from there, who were too much ‘people of all places’ and too interested in what they found interesting than what others did. The result is a mess of half understood rumours that can’t possibly be true. What do you ask first?

“Is it true that that sun shines all the time in the south?” Five better questions immediately take its place in your mind. Why did you ask one that sounded so childish? You’d heard someone say that about the south when you were a girl and it seemed impossible then. It explained the skin supposedly being burned black, and how they could not see the majesty of the gods currently twinkling above, but when did they sleep?

She looks at you, confused at first, but then with understanding.

“Ah, yes, most times, in most places. Some have rains and clouds, but de deserts do not.”

Fascinating! Five questions turn to twenty in an instant. She goes on, thinking.

“It is a warm place all over, but de far south is not. Too windy, and de desert at night can freeze like no other.”

So there is night! That saves you a potentially embarrassing follow-up question. But if there is a night and they see the gods, why is their religion so wrong? Phrasing it so would be a little crass, but if they worship one god, you’d like to know which one it is.

You let a little silence linger, keeping it light so as not to overwhelm her with your curiosity. After an appropriate time, you delicately ask, “I hear that your people- er, southerns, I mean- go to a temple and pray to your god every week, even when you have no need to. Is that true?”

She looks confused for a moment, and you wonder if talk of religion and faith is a topic in poor taste after the ordeal she’s been though.

Instead she asks, “Why would you only pray to god when you need someting? Dis ting seems like a...” she waves a hand around, eyes not leaving the mansion, “how you say ‘fair weader friend’?”

Well that’s a curious way of putting it you suppose. You try to explain.

“In the principalities, and Coronac, you pray to the gods by living by them. So I pray to the Gods of Justice,“ you look above but can’t see them right now thanks to the house hiding them from sight. Typical. “-and I do it by living a just life and seeking justice. That’s how you- I mean, we- pray. We only go to a temple and speak to a priest if we feel that we’re losing our way or want advice.” Or you’re part of a religious order like your own and looking for instruction, you add mentally. Better to keep it simple.

Hopefully that clears that up. A god that you pray to by sitting down and doing nothing seems like a god of laziness.

She thinks for a moment, mulling over your response with genuine consideration. When finished, she speaks slowly, picking her steps with caution.

“Well... Our connection to god is like family. You do not go to family only when you need dem, you go because you want to go.” Her brow furrows with disgruntled thought, dissatisfied with her own answer. “Perhaps, I am not explaining dis well. Udders know more dan I on dis” she finishes.

Very odd. The conversation, by her tone, is over, but you fear you’ve left it with more questions instead of less. The idea of treating a god you see as divine as family is almost comical, and how do they know what’s right or how to orientate themselves if they don’t seek the gods will through their actions? Thoughts and words seem poor substitutes to that. You’re not as obsessed as some people can get, but if the gods of justice didn’t guide and even demand action, you probably wouldn’t be here living it out. In more ways than one, come to think of it.

With possibly many hours left to wait and no-one traveling the path one way or the other, you try to approach it from a different angle.

“From our first birthday, when we’re born-“

“Wait.”

You stop at her request, turning to look at the mansion house. Nothing comes down the path; you’re still alone. You look back at her with confusion and find a similar expression looking back at you.

“You have your first birthday when you’re born?”

You respond carefully, looking for the trick. “Yes?”

“De day you are born. So…de day you come…out of your mudder?”

This seems an odd thing to get confused by; surely southerners are not that different. The air seems comically still and you find a smile growing your face, symbiotic with your expression of bewilderment.

“When else would you have it?”

Now it’s her turn to look like some trick is being played on her.

“De year after you are born.” She goes on as your confusion doesn’t lessen. What is she talking about? “So…you are born, yes?” You nod; yes, you agree on that. “And when you are born, it is your first day in de world. So you are zero years old.”

Ah, you see where she’s getting confused.

“No no no. You are in the world, in your mother, before birth.” You recount, as your mother told you, “’One month for the gods of new life to decide who you’re going to be, then nine months in the mother.’” You leave out the ‘until you’re just right’ and the tap on your nose she would add; it doesn’t seem appropriate. “It takes one year to make a person, and the first day of your birth is the end of that first year, making you one years old.”

Everyone, in Coronac and the Principalities, knows this. It’s not hard. This is why it’s hard to keep down the irritation you feel at her expression.

She looks at you as if you’re retarded.

Her mouth opens and closes several times, looking for the right words to speak, and a little spark of satisfaction comes from her inability to do so. Still, you can tell that she doesn’t quite understand it yet, so you wait patiently for her inevitable questions.

“Calendars,” she finally responds, as though it explains everything, and…perhaps it does? You vaguely remember another unbelievable titbit about the south, jumping to the front of your mental questions list. Apparently, they have the wrong number of months; 12 instead of the usual 10, if you recall. You always assumed they just had shorter months to compensate.

She beats you to it. “How many days are in a year?”

“300,” you answer, without hesitation. “10 months, with 30 days each.”

She throws up her hands in exasperation and salvation both, shooting you an incredulous look.

“How can you nordern barbarians look at de stars so much but still get de year wrong?”

You raise a challenging eyebrow at her, silently prompting her to ‘correct’ you.

“365 days, and a bit, in a year, with 12 months.”

You can’t help but scoff. That the gods would be so haphazard in their movements is such a ridiculous concept, you don’t even know where to begin!

After a few dumfounded attempts, similar to her own, you instead settle on looking up at the gods and asking them to forgive her ignorance. A gesture that leaves her shaking with mirth.

After a moment, you laugh as well, and entertain the concept. By the calendar of the empire, you’d be about… Gah! You almost give up! Adding up in 365 day increments is so…otherworldly. Your 24 by the Central calendar -an rough 7,200 days total, ignoring the bit- so by the empire calendar, you’re somewhere around… 20? And a half? No, minus the first year, which apparently doesn’t count, you’re 19 and a half. That turns your mouth. While some woman wouldn’t mind shaving a few years off, you don’t like the idea of going back that far.

You share your thoughts with the other woman, if only to share some levity, but it has the opposite effect. She looks oddly sad: reminiscent, almost. She still smiles anyway, responding like the first thing she said to you.

“Huh.”

You ask her to elaborate and she smiles as her gaze returns to the manor.

“My daughter is half your age.”

It’s a confession that leaves you a little shocked. Perhaps it’s her odd skin, but she doesn’t look that old; perhaps only a few years older than you are. She must have been very young when she had her daughter. You wait for a moment, but no more comes. You don’t ask for her age, only because you know one of you would convert it to the central calendar, and no woman wants that.

You both snap to attention as a faint scream radiates out from the far side of the mansion. The sounds of ****, brutal and sustained, inflicted on some hapless woman, wailing in distress. You jump as a hand lands on your shoulder, and you realise you are your dark friend is beside, stopping you as you hunch, ready to run to the woman’s rescue. You follow the arm to a shaking face, hard and stern, and know in your heart that there is nothing you can do but listen.

The screams go on, and then end as abruptly as they began. Once more the mansion stands silent in the night, but there is a tension to it now; it looms as it never did before; some pit, thrown into shadow by a shy moon. Minutes pass, and minutes more, until someone comes.

They walk from the building to the village by the front path, driven out by the screams or leaving after causing them. Their stride stomps with a satisfied gait, as though perpetually angry, even when happy, and as they near, they form into the shape of a short man in a garish setup. He wears mostly normal clothes, but the flowing sleeveless coat of red and yellow colour marks him out as not one of Wendigo’s. He also has large daggers at his belt, like small swords, swaggering with each confident step. If he was allowed to bring those into the mansion, were even armour is not allowed, he must be very important. From the colours, that would make him ‘your’ captain; Captain Roland, as the tavern men named him.

You briefly consider the possibility that he had perhaps murdered Captain Washkin; that the scream you heard was hers. It doesn’t add up though; there is not a drop of blood on him that you can see and no ruckus comes from the distant building, from which he exited alone. Only his expression, revealed as he nears, counts against him, as it’s filled with a kind of savage happiness, as though watching some hated enemy fail in some humiliating way. After a silent conversation, the deciding vote on letting him pass is cast by neither of you. Instead, further traffic from the mansion catches your eye as a skinny man and a rather portly gentleman follows, talking to each other in polite and unworried business tones. They’re dressed richly, and were you two highway(wo)men then you’d consider them ripe targets. Instead, all they add to your efforts is the lack of their presence in the building ahead.

What follows is time spent in silence, watching further dribs and drabs leak from the building as it empties itself bit by bit. Next is a woman, and in the white and red colours no less, though it’s hard to tell her gender at first; short, tanned, and furtive, with dark hair, flat chest and boyish hips, all of which clash with the description of her captain. Following that is a man in white and red, looking even more furtive. You have to hide as he passes, so attentive is he to the trees and surroundings. After that is a scattered group of six, oddly enough with only one bearing the same red and yellow as you. Only one is a woman, and she looks a brute, with shaggy brown hair bulging at her neck before cascading down her back. She doesn’t fit with the description you have of Captain Washkin at all, save perhaps the height, and a brief look at your friend confirms your suspicion.

When they all pass, silence follows, or as close to it as the night provides. No further people come from the mansion or to it, and the hoot of an owl and rustle of the trees is all that comes to you. After a whispered assurance that she will do nothing more than look, your friend moves about the treeline surrounding the building to check the front and back entrances. You had left your armour on, it being darker than the jacket or your pale skin, even painted as it is, but it’s bulky and better for hiding in bushes than moving quietly through them. When she returns, she whispers of a front and back door, both guarded, recommending the latter for its weaker looking watch and returning to her own. You watch as the moonlight slides across the ground, lengthening the shadows until they are all that is left. Neither of you talk. It was not daylight before, but you could see if someone was nearby. Such luxury had set with the moon. The only whispered words you share is when planning the basics of your attack before heading off, but you don’t morn the lack of conversation; you’ll have plenty of time for questions and answers when you leave here together.

It is time.

After a moment’s hesitation, you reach out in the dark and touch her shoulder, sliding down to her hand and turning it before placing the handle of your stiletto in her palm. She’s to attack, while you’re to distract, and while she made it seem as though she wouldn’t need it, you know it will make her task easier. As it slides from your fingers, you consider that you’re placing more than just your blade in her hands.

You shed your amour as she goes on ahead. It’s not like you know how to fight in it, even if it fit you, and what’s below is better suited to your role. The guard on the roof passes again, a ghost amongst the stars, and you begin a brisk walk up the path when it passes from his vision. Of the front or the back, you had planned the back first, and you take the appropriate split in the path. Hopefully it’s not locked, but if it is then there should be enough time to try the front before the roof guard passes again.

Bushes litter the area, funnelling the path as it curves around the building, and you feel terribly isolated from your support. You tread lightly, crunching the gravel as little as possible without sounding like you’re sneaking, and eventually you come to its inevitable end. A man stands leaning against the wall beside a similarly propped up wooden bat, next to door which spills a faint line of flickering light across the nearby grass. Your steps slow. Showtime.

Approaching the guard, you wonder what you’re going to say. Ideally, whatever it is, you need to stand in the doorway as you say it, leaving him with his back turned to the hostile night. Why would you be here? What will you talk about? How do you make sure he doesn’t raise an alarm before he is taken down?

As you approach, he speaks first.

“Zzzzzzz”

You don’t believe it. He’s fast asleep! Your half formed elaborate story of fleeing your current captain and seeking sanctuary here, perhaps in the arms of a handsome and strong pirate, dies on the vine.

You look about in the dark, lit by the scant light of the doorway, and shrug to someone you can’t actually see. You suppose you just…walk in? The night shifts into a black blur, briefly cutting the light of the building, before a slick noise sounds, softer than the rustle of the nearby leaves. Your friend, still dressed in naught but dark skin, stands close to the man, hand on his mouth and blade in this neck, worked up under his jaw and into the top of his skull in a familiar manner. He slumps, sliding down the wall, and she catches him, dragging him toward the building and through the door you open for her, which is thankfully unlocked. She dumps him in the small entry hall, before snuffing the guttering candle with her fingers. You feel more than a little useless, but you step back outside and groping where the man stood. After a moment, you walk back in, heavy wooden bat in hand.

The entry hall leads into a kitchen, also dotted with the nubs of dying candles, and you make your way through, silently following the shape of your friend. Fortunately, the late hour, which borders on early, means there is little activity in the house. The lanterns has been left to burn for some reason, and they light the halls with a dim glow as you traverse them, giving the place the illusion of more occupants that it has. Each hallway is lined with doors, each devoid of any light spilling their cracks, and while you begin to wonder if you should check some of them, your guide finds what she seeks. The hallway takes you both to a room, and the room opens up with a large empty arch on one end, leading to an even bigger room. You follow her to the arch, looking into a foyer of sorts, with a high ceiling stretching up into the floor above and a long set of stairs leading onto a landing balcony. It’s the brightest of the rooms so far, but even here several lanterns had burnt themselves out, leaving the place too shadowy to be opulent. Another arch across from you leads into pure darkness, and a large door standing nearby can only be the buildings front entrance. A black hand points silently to the top of the stairs, where a set of double doors dominate the centre of the landing.

As before, you follow, making your way silently up the stairs behind the woman. Her skin and the poor light hide the unfortunate sight of her behind, and you move a little faster, bringing yourself up beside her. When you reach the top, you both look in each direction along the landing, which seems to stretch far beyond the foyer and stairs, reaching all the way to each end of the long building, capped in starry unblocked windows.

She goes to the double doors and you follow, trusting that her first unfortunate visit to this place gave her some insight into its owner’s location. The left door opens without a creek, showing a very dim room, dominated by a table in its centre and crowded by cabinets and chests along its side, but no life. Your eyes go to its other end and another door leading further in. You both make separate ways around the table, and you get to the door first, listening in and smiling as you find the sound you most wanted to hear.

It’s not snoring, but in the silence of the night, it carries the unmistakable heavy breathing of a sleeping soul. Your friend catches up and then catches your eye, nodding solemnly before offering back the blade you gave. Your smile slips as you take it.

The door opens and the room is black, with no candles and no moonlight to guide the way. To the right, an open window shows stars glittering over distant treetops, their green tops unswaying in the hot night and covering the land like an impenetrable smog. You cannot see the sea. The breathing draws you in, closer and closer, yet painfully slow as you measure each and every step. Wooden floor turns to soft material and back as you push onward, over piles of loose material or discarded clothes. Your hand reaches blindly ahead, straining to brush the air as softly as possible, and when it finally touches a beam of wood, your fingers settle upon it as gently as dust; the end of a four poster bed, with the sound of breathing cradled within.

Your eyes slowly adjust along your journey, forming the basis of a shape in the sheets. It seems so…unsporting, to kill her now, when she is most ****, but you remind yourself that a duel is hardly an option, even if you knew how to have one. You can’t pick out a face, but the grand bed of the master bedroom in the middle of everything would not be occupied by a servant girl. This is Captain Wendy ‘Go’ Washkin; it has to be. You ready the blade over her heart, both hands keeping it steady and point down.

It rises, and it falls.

And that’s it. The breathing stops, as though it had never been. No gasp, or scream, or pain. Just stillness. You reach out a hand and place it on her still warm chest. It’s unlikely, but-

You find it after a quick grope; the chain of a necklace worn even to bed. The Amulet of Abyet. A quick fiddle with the clasp and it’s yours.

You move your hand, letting it slide to the point of you blades impact and hold her down while you remove it. It’s not needed; the blade slips free with ease. You remove your hand, gently, respectfully, stepping back with only a little less care then when you approached. You return to the poor light of the outer room, and let the amulet glitter, its blue stone alive even as you can hardly make out the gold and silver work around it. There is no need to see her face now.

Your friend looks at it with acknowledgement, nodding grimly at what it represents, but disinterested in the item itself. She moves to go back and you stop her with a hand on her shoulder, instead guiding her inside and pointing blindly to the distant open window. You don’t fancy a walk through lit rooms when a quick drop would work instead. She moves in that direction.

You put the blade away into the sheath at your thigh and throw the amulet around your neck; the most expensive jewellery you’ve ever worn, and no doubt ever will. Its value now is not only in jewel and precious metals, but in bounty: 50,000 gold coins of it; the highest in history. It’s surprisingly heavy, but not nearly heavy enough.

With your free hands, you return to where the wooden floor became soft as you walked it, and confirm your suspicions by scooping up a pile of the captains discarded clothes. Your friend is already climbing out the window, onto a small edge of tiled roof, and you watch as she climbs down slowly and drops to the grass below. She had discarded the unused bat you traded with her. You toss the clothes down behind her and begin your own decent.

By the time you reach the bottom and thud into the grassy lawn, she had gathered up the material in her arms, but not had time to dress in them. She’s have to live with whatever size and style they were.

She follows you as you move towards the wild back of the island, guided into the woods by the stairs above, and beyond them, freedom.

On a small boat, occupied by the stimulating mix of a small lantern and a single oar, an old man sits. If the girl took any longer, he’d leave, as he promised her. Still, tired worry creased his brow, exacerbated by boredom.

It’s not like he had some personal connection with the girl, but if she was dead or worse then it would be his fault and he didn’t like that. He was just shy of a hundred years old and had no business getting blood on his hands at this point.

A hand smacked against the inside of his boat, and his old heart almost gave out, the old and long since thinned head above it lost in thought. When a woman made of darkness pulled herself aboard, his head almost gave up as well, convinced the night had come to claim him for his sins! It was only when a light skinned arm, familiarly girlish, gripped the side as well, and the amateurish kicking and splashing of a landlubber came through to his ears, that he rose to action, grabbing and pulling them both aboard like the catch of the day.

He smiled and sighed with exhaustion, before quickly returning to ‘disinterested old guide’ watching them cough and splutter as the water ran dry. The girl was the same, but her clothes were different; looking like a ragamuffin, or more like one of those hoodlums that terrorise his fishing waters. The southern woman was something else, with skin as dark as the night standing stark against what looked like a frilly white nighty some noble would wear. The water had done nothing to maintain its scant modesty, though she didn’t seem to mind, ignoring the parts where silk shaped or showed all she had. If he were younger, he’d mind more.

“She’s with me,” his paid for passenger explained, as though he were about to throw the woman back into the see.

The woman in question, all eyes and teeth in the dark night, saltwater dripping from the curls of her wire hair, looked at him as she caught her breath. Eventually, she spoke, with a little bow of her head.

“Ohnma- I tank you for your travel.”

“Sulus- it be safe.” He responded in a raspy disinterested tone, privately thrilled that he got to exercise such obscure and useless knowledge. The pasty girl from the principalities looked on with interest before making introductions.

“This is Wilk. My guide, who will receive a generous bonus for taking us. Wilk, this is…” A look of mortified embarrassment briefly crossed the girls face.

“Vush.” There is a tired satisfaction in the woman’s voice. “Vush Metlata-Mikalocia.” She turns to the girl. “You?”

After a sheepish look, the pale skinned girl with the bunned up hair responded. “Anna; Anna Elizabeth Woodson.”

Wilk began to paddle.

After a moment’s thought, ‘Vush’ responded.

“Anna. A good name. Dere is a snake in my country called dis.” The girl doesn’t seem thrilled by the news, but perks up as her friend goes on. “It carries deadly poison yet only kills when it needs to.”

‘Anna’ takes on a curious expression, touching her thigh while lost in thought.

“Huh.”

It’s the start of a conversation that would go on to leave Wilk replete with more useless knowledge than he would even know what to do with.