...go up the dumbwaiter and get on with this.

You’ve been given this opportunity and it would be foolish not to take it. You don’t know what waits on the other side of the door, but it’s not your target. Even if you search it, you could find nothing, and worse, you could return here to find some late night resident in attendance, blocking your way up completely.

Gingerly, you contort yourself into the waist high hole and place one foot onto the waiting tray. It wobbles slightly, contained by its snug fit within the shaft, and the rope tightens as you put more pressure on the tray, but it holds. It even feels quite solid. You put your hands on the frame and haul yourself inside completely, holding the inner walls while surfing the wooden board into stillness. The shaft is bare and dusty, made of rough wooden beams that form a track to keeping the tray mostly in place, and flaking plaster that lies beyond them. It’s these beams you use to keep your full weight off the try, pricking yourself with splinters as you gradually let go and lower yourself until squatting unsupported. It doesn’t even groan, which makes sense as you think about it; it’s likely built for well laden trays of silver or even gold tableware. It could probably lift several times your weight in its prime. But this mansion as a whole has clearly seen better days and you ready to grab the wall if needed, listening suspiciously for the slightest groan in the rope or creak of the board. Not loudly crashing to the bottom of a dumbwaiter shaft is worth the risk of some splinters.

You try the right most rope, giving it an insistent downward pull. You’re rewarded with a jolt of upward motion from your steed and the oiled clink of gears above, and soon you’re pulling arm over arm, rising up the shaft at an easy pace. There are no sounds of shouting or running or confusion up above, just the tension of the rope and the steady tapping of its mechanism as you ascend. The smell of dust and sugars permeates the climb, as though a history of fine confectionery had been absorbed by the untreated wood, which now sings forlornly of old gluttony past. Soon, light that guided you hits your eyes, coming from the single lantern within the room at your ascensions end. You halt the lift with just your eyes peering in, taking in the plane plaster and lumpy sheet covered objects that adorn the small windowless room. Clearly it was for the use of servants, and now for storage; while the middle holds the covered shapes of flat things -crates or tables or some such- the edges clearly hold more unusually shaped items, speaking of standing mirrors or paintings unhung, each draped in cloth and turned ethereal by the lantern hanging on an iron hook mounted on the far wall.

When you see no one present, you wipe the sweat off your brow and haul the rest of yourself up, to the point you can depart your tray in safety. You step out with your legs first -one then the other- holding the edges of the dumbwaiters exit frame for leverage. The hole is as generous as below and you soon find yourself standing in the room, now upstairs and one step further to your target. Your self-congratulations are short lived though. A loud bang rings from somewhere behind your head, at the exact same moment the lantern goes out on the far wall, plunging the room into darkness. Did the hook break and the lantern fall? Puzzled, and with no answers forthcoming, you collapse to your knees and sink into unconsciousness.

---

The world returns to blurry reality once more, throbbing with pain and slowly forming an odd sight. A forest of dimly lit wooden slats push through plaster some distance away. As your eyes focus, the number of versions of what you see coalesce into a single image and you realise that the wooden slats are still behind much of the plaster, some of which must have fallen away some time ago. Several more seconds pass before you realise you’re staring up at a ceiling, and one in quite a bit of disrepair.

Whatever you’re lying on is hard and wooden and quiet uncomfortable. A box or table perhaps? It’s not the floor, as your lower legs hang off the edge, bent at the knee and floating in air. You put an arm out to sit up, only to jerk sideways confusingly. After several more seconds, you realise why; your arms are tied behind your back.

It’s a realisation enough to shock most of the cobwebs out of your pounding head. You look up, or down, away from the ceiling and towards the far wall. It contains a dark looking square with ropes and a familiar looking tray in its centre. You remember climbing up that, though the memory skitters about like a spider in your head. What’s more, the dumbwaiter hole sits in a column of the wall, more like the chimney breast of a fireplace than the simple flat wall that was in the kitchen. That means there’s a space on either side of it which could not be seen from within the passage itself.

As you look at the wall, you manage to lift yourself up slightly. It’s enough to redouble your head ache, but also enough to shift the material of your top, letting it drop down to cover your breasts once more.

You look down in confusion. Your belly is still bared, and you definitely felt the fabric move over your nipples. What’s more, you feel your mask has been dropped and now hangs about your neck. With rising alarm, you reason that whoever knocked you out must have done this and a sickening feeling takes over. They tied your hands, dropped your mask, and revealed your breasts. What’s more, your breasts feel...weird; off, in some way you can’t quite place. They’re both still there, but something’s happened to them, or been done to them. You go cold. Your trousers are still on. It doesn’t...feel like anything’s happened to you, down there. You don’t think so, anyway. You feel ill, physically ill, as though you’re going to throw up, and waves of pallid nausea comes washing over you. You rest your throbbing head back and the nausea begins to fade.

You tug at the material binding your arms. It feels thick, like the great ropes that hold ships to port, but softer, and there is too much of it as well. It arches your back as you lie on a large wrapped wodge of it, and it while it feels tight, it’s not unyielding; the more you twist and pull at it, the looser it becomes. Fabric, perhaps? Like a large sheet, coiled and used as a hasty restraint? Whatever it is, it loosens more the more you twist it. If you could stand, it would be off you in a minute. You make to do so, but by coincidence or design, you hear the sound of footsteps closing in outside the nearby door. Several sets of footsteps.

You’re groggier and dizzier than you’ve ever been before, and the notion of standing up without throwing up is quite unlikely, let alone besting two or more people with hands tied behind your back. You close your eyes and feign unconsciousness just as the door opens, listening to its latch lift and fall before its body cuts through the air and showers your midriff with a gentle breeze.

“Check er out...” An unfamiliar voice chimes as the booted feet walk in and the door clicks shut behind them.

The footsteps patter close, one set leading, the other hanging back, and you try to remains as passive and **** as possible, ears pricked to their plans for you. A face hovers above yours, too close for comfort, radiating warmth and breath against your skin and setting you alight with Goosebumps and hidden shivers. It seems to study your features for a moment, pausing before the first voice continues from a distance behind it, giving the silent man space for your apparent evaluation.

“I knows you like the prissy lookin ones: all sweet an small and stuff. And ‘not a kid’ or whatever. I’d say she fits the bill, right? Well, what do you think?”

You hear the man above you, whose eyes you can feel roving your maskless face, whisper for the first time, almost absently,

“She’s beautiful.”

The genuine tone in his voice is not one you want to here. You can scrub up well enough with a little time, and you have all your teeth and lack any major scars or blemishes. You suppose if you owned any makeup and knew how to use it you could make it to pretty, but not beautiful. There’s only one reason a man of the sea would see you as ‘beautiful’. The same reason a starving man would see a meagre desert as a fine feast.

“What?”

The gaze and evaluation withdraws at the question of the first voice, half incredulous and half genuinely curious as to the whispered words it missed. The second responds, speaking clearly for the first time.

“Er, I said, I think we should tell the captain.”

The other man comes close as well. He must be the one who tied your arms, as well as clobber you and lift you top. At this point, from the words and the footsteps, you’re sure you only have two men to deal with. Tied and beaten, it may as well be a dozen.

“Oh, com’on. If we hand er over to the captain, she’ll-“ He pauses when he reaches you, just for a moment, as though considering if your still exactly where he left you. Perhaps you should have left your top up? Though it’s not like you could, thinking about it.

“Well...She’ll just get fucked by everyone anyway. I say we have our turn now, first like. Call it a finder’s fee.”

His words send a small involuntary clench through your body, sobering the last bit of dizziness from your mind. Hopefully, they didn’t see it, or the minute movement of your wrists against their bindings.

So, they plan to **** you. There’s something shockingly calming about that; as though you know where everything stands. You don’t want it, obviously, but the world that was confused and upside down now returns to its sick senses: it’s you against them with your body on the line. If only these binding would loosen sooner.

“Captain said-“

“I know what the fuckin Captain said. Its jus... comon man; a sweat slice o gash lands in yer lap an you don’t fuck it? She’s right here!”

The men begin to argue, the first sounding older and a little scratchy, despite the passion in his voice; the second sounding younger, though not as young as his hesitance makes him seem. It’s the younger you find yourself siding with.

“Why not fuck her on your own then? An why’s she asleep?”

The older man gives a little harrumph, both frustrated and superior.

“I gave her head a good crack, but-“

He clamps a hand over your mouth, pressing palm to lips and pushing your head against the flat box you rest upon.

“-she ain’t sleepin, not since we got in. She’s been fakein. Ain’t that right love?”

With no other choice, you open your eyes and let them follow the arm on your mouth to the face of its owner. You give it a good glare when you get there. He’s older, as you surmised, with a red bandanna over a creased face that supports a stubbly grey beard, but his expression is oddly youthful, more like an eager teenager than an old man. His brown patchwork clothes, like those of a servant turned street beggar, look like threadbare rags in the flickering light. No pirate colours, and none of the wealth of a visitor; he must be a servant, but would even Captain Washkin hire such a delinquent looking man?

The other man looks a little more like a pirate, though his clothes are even stranger. He wears a top that covers only his sleeves in a deep crimson, with a buckle that stretches across his chest to hold the two halves together. By comparison, his face is as plane and unremarkable as they come, and any other day you could easily loose him in a crowd. It’s not helped by his close cropped haircut, commonly favoured by labourers as much as brawlers.

The older man, holding your mouth tight, looks at you.

“Just so you know, two captains are in the room three doors down.” He sucks his teeth briefly, considering. “Corse that’s probably what you came here for. You make a peep that gets them runnin and your gonna have two crews that all want a piece. You want that?”

You shake your head, breathing hard. You can’t move it far, but he gets the message.

“Good. Now me an my friend here are gonna fuck ya-“

You wince at his bluntness as much as his intention, and try to look away. The grogginess is a dim and distant memory at this point, and you decide to try and speak around his hand, quietly; bartering for your body. He presses his palm down harder.

“Ah, ah, ah, ah. Shut up now. Listen. While me an him take a few turns, Captains gonna finish er business an that Roland fella’s gonna go and fuck off to his own ship. Captain’ll be in a right good mood then; purrin like a kitty. She’ll probably let you go even. But only if you don’t do nothin stupid. So, you gonna keep quiet?”

The chance of being let go is an obvious lie, but you can’t ignore the other information he gave you. Roland? The person she’s with? That name is familiar. You nod your head while you think. It’s not like help would come if you called.

“Good”

Despite his satisfaction, he doesn’t remove his hand. Turning back to his friend, he continues where he left off.

“To answer your other question, I still owe you a bit from that last game and this is payment. Full payment. Sides, she looks like a two man job, no matter what she agrees, an I don’t want to get bit.”

“Still think we should tell the Captain.” The other man pouts.

“An I’m sick of getting broken leftovers! Startin to think you prefer men to these...”

You squeak as his free hand pulls up your loose top, left, then right. Once more, your breasts are exposed to the room, garnering a ready audience from the two men, and acting as compelling arguments in their debate. The younger wavers, looking between them and your angry red face.

“Well...she _is _a looker.”

“That’s the spirit.” The older man takes on a wry looking grin as he gets his way. “Check this out.”

He leans down, his lined face approaching the flattened twins of your chest. You look into his eyes, and he into yours as he turns his head slightly, directing his words to his friend and co-criminal.

“Did this a bit while she was out. She seemed to like it then...”

His lips meet the nub of your nipple in a kiss, before breaking wide, sliding past the pink dais to the soft flesh either side, his mouth opening to take in your flattened mound. A shudder of disgust runs through you, your breath coming hard through your nose, watching wide eyed as his lips form a seal around you. He sucks.

“Mmmmmm!!” Your voice seeks escape through the bars of his fingers, his hand crushing your lips against your teeth. The pressure pushes your chin back, even as his other pressure pulls the furthest reaches of your flattened flesh into his mouth, devouring it with slurping wet greed like a latched barnacle, unshaken from your arching protests. He draws back, letting his friend see your flesh pulled taught, until an audible pop releases you from his grasp and collapses you, red and hardened, back to your shaken ribs and the box below.

For a moment, you’re so shocked that the material around your arms is forgotten, along with escape. It’s only when they both lean in -two grown men latching on to a babes perverted suckle- that you redouble your efforts.

The men, heads side by side on the arena of your bared chest, lick and suck with painful insistence. Hands begin to squeeze, and you bring up your legs by reflex, trying to kick them, or cover yourself with your knees. It takes only an idle hand to push them away. A loud ripping suck blows a raspberry around your teat and you almost gag from disgust, unable to shake the hand at your mouth or twist free of their focus. You notice, spurred by what’s to come, that the material binding your arms has loosened, brought so by the shocked moment you stopped pulling it tight in a bid to escape. You push your arms together, twisting them and pulling, teasing the material from its own grip. Slowly. So Slowly.

Another pop, and you’re freed of one mollusc, leaving a slimy nub and an unclean feeling behind. It was the one who favoured the sucking, the older man, who had taken his fill of your chest as you slept and now elected himself first of your assailants. The other feels like he’s circling you; taking the space his friend left as he tastes the sweat of fear that beads across your body. The older man steps back, his hand leaving your mouth.

“Plea-“

The younger man’s hand takes its place, its owner now engrossed fully with your poorly filled bosom. It’s an attention that makes you writhe, trying to shake him off, which in turn both hinders and hides the **** working of your arms below.

The older man pulls your legs down by the ankles, and then by the knees, planting the back of your legs against whatever surface you occupy. You feel his hands quickly move to the hem of your black trousers, easily accessible thanks to your lifted top, and a quick pull sets it past the curve of to your rump to your thighs. Your heart pound with wild abandon; so much so that the man sampling the flesh above it would have his eyes blackened were it not kept in check by your ribs. You could kick, but should you? You want to, obviously, but a thin sliver of hope grows in your arms with each loosening twist. What if they turn you around? What if they beat you? If you stay the course then you can get free, you know it! But gods, you don’t want to get ****!

The moment’s hesitation takes the choice away from you as your trousers land amongst your ankles, kept in restraining place by your pumps like prison cuffs. You’re bare to them now, black tuft sitting stark in the middle of your pale white skin.

“Naughty.”

You keep your legs pressed together like a vice, shivering at the touch of his hands upon your thighs and his eyes upon his goal. You jump at the clatter of the knife; stiletto blade landing on the table beside your head.

“Very naughty.”

Come on. Come on. A minute more and you’re free; you can almost feel it! The idiot even put the knife right by you! If this blasted cloth would just unravel. Instead, you feel his thumb pull at you. Parting you. Sneaking through your clenched legs. Pressing and penetrating.

“MMmmmm!”

“Hey, if she’s payment then I’m going first.” The words bring about a brief reprieve on your chest as the man looks up at his friend.

You feel yourself begin to cry. Just a bit more time.

“Ha! I don’t owe you that much. It was Zap that lost big, not me. You can go second.”

The thumb leaves you, both hands now at your hips. As he pulls you toward him, it’s the sheet that you’re on that travels, sliding over the surface below and carrying your hips to the edge of the box. His friend keeps your mouth closed and looks grim in the process, clearly considering arguing the point. Unfortunately for your own point, he returns to it instead, intent to suck its unproductive nub dry with new gusto. You bring up your knees, hearing the tell-tale fall of cloth until once more your legs are **** down, and this time apart.

He steps between them.

Tears blur your eyes, shattering the sight of the slats above with despair and frustration. Just a little more. You feel it. Just a little more.

“Oh. Save your strength love.”

“MMMMMMMMMM!!!! MMM!! MM! MM! MM! MM! MM!”

“Ugh. Uff. Uff. Um. Ugh. Oh fuck she’s tight.”

“Mmeah?”

“Yeah. Ugh. Girls got a grip. Mmf. You’re gonna, ugh, owe _me _after this.”

“MM! MM! MM! MM! MM!”

Whatever you’re on rocks and bumps with his movement, clashing with the sounds that come from your covered mouth. It’s a quiet thing overall; with you making the greater share of the noise.

Don’t think about it. Your arms roll against each other, back and forth in little motions, threatening to tie you tighter. You give them space. Pull and push. The noise you make settles.

“That’s right. Just enjoy it.”

Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump.

“Mm. Mm. Mm. Mm. Mm. Mm. Mm.”

Push and pull. Push and pull. Push and pull.

You feel it loosening with every second.

You feel lips drawing you in, helped and hindered by the wetness of a tongue. You feel the rubbing of hairs and the light slaps against your rump. You feel the length of a man in-

No. You feel the sheet only, focusing on your arms and not- and nothing else. Pushing, twisting, and turning. You yank them back and forth, letting the motion loosen things, getting rid of the tightness as you push through the grip.

Push and pull. Push and pull. Push and pull.

Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump.

“Mm. Mm. Mm. Mm. Mm. Mm. Mm.”

Freedom.

Like some **** parting, the fabric slowly let’s go of your right hand, letting you ease it out without either man noticing. Not that they seem attentive. You blink free the moisture and see that the man latched to your bosom has his nose against your ribs, eyes closed for now as he savours the moment, or simply cannot bring himself to meet your stare. The other man has his hand upon your bony hips, holding them still as your split legs jostle up and down upon his impacts. Seeing his old face, open mouthed with panting joy, bandanna wetting with sweat upon his brow, makes it real, like a cut that hurts the more you look. You feel him; you can’t not.

Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump.

It’s only now you realise that it’s your own heel, bumping the box below, that’s making the noise. How could you have not felt that? He leans forward, adding weight to his drive and adopting a longer, slower, but no softer pace, reaching his left arm up to maul your free breast. His eyes are down, looking at the place your furred worlds meet with strained concentration.

“Ahh. Oh yeah. Nearly there. Pussys so good. In fact…I think I’m gonna…I’m gonna…“

You no longer make noise; foot or throat.

Him first.

Your arm unfurls from behind you, reaching up to your head like a vine curling toward sunlight. Steel finds your fingers, and your fingers find their strength. Thanking his returned interest in your chest, you move the blade under his molesting arm and between his ribs in one sure movement. The strike is true, or true enough, with a small gasp telling of his hearts last beat. You almost feel it, shuddering down the blade, and it gifts its last quart of blood in a sudden thick flow that fall upon you.

The old man is dead, and unfortunately he has only one way to fall. As he collapses on you, he pins the blade inside him, and what’s more, he smothers his friend as well, who grits his teeth in shock, heedless of the breast still between them.

“MMMMNNM!”

He shoves the dead man back with frustration, unknowing of his new corpse status. The man falls from you -and finally out of you- to the floor, departing himself from your own heartfelt penetration of his chest as you grip the blade. It leaves him with a ‘shlick’ sound. Confused at his comrade’s collapse and the lifeless tumble that followed, the man looks up. The blade enters his temple, sickeningly clear through his close cropped hair.

He makes a wet slap on your chest before joining his friend on the floor. You let him keep the blade.

You pant; gasping deeply through your freed mouth. The air is bitter, yet you drag it back and forth along your hoarse throat. The bare slats of the ceiling stare back at you impassively, unimpressed by your double ****, and why should they be? Your legs come together, covering the cost incurred for your amateurish blunder. You laid your head bare on a headsman’s block: crawling from a hole without checking if it was clear. And then he… He didn’t…did he?

You open your legs and look at yourself, pert lips red sore from his dry intrusion. You didn’t feel him do it -spill his seed and make a **** mother of you- but how does one tell? Two intrepid fingers enter, and leave with a sheen of sweat and nothing more. A heavy sigh threatens to turn to tears, like a humid squall a moment from rain. Stupid stupid stupid. Why didn’t you look? You look at the teeth marks at your breast; why must men always bloody you with their lusts?

You feel anger. Anger at yourself, anger at them, the world. Mostly, you just feel anger, simple and aimless. It stands you up, pulls up your trousers, and collects your blade from bloody temple with callus speed. It animates you; helps you to stand and helps you move forward and it keeps the tears at bay. One day, you won’t be angry, but that’s a problem for another day. Tonight, you feel like stabbing someone many times, and wouldn’t you know it, there is a captain two doors down.

No, wait. Three doors down? Yes, three doors down, and two captains waiting. You think back to the bastards words. Roland? That was the name mentioned, you’re sure of it. Why is it familiar? You suppose Roland was one of Captain Washkin’s subordinate captains. But he should be… you think back to the stack of papers on your bedside table; he should be far to the north, not down here. You didn’t do much research on him as a result -there were far too many other pet captains to cover- but you do remember a little. He’s short, you think, with a hot temper? Sounds about right, but not exactly his life story. Yet another careless mistake.

Your head still hurts.

The distraction of the tasks at hand help; cleaning the blade and putting it away, pulling up your mask, listening for others, putting yourself to right. Unfortunately, your bare torso and arm is covered in blood, and despite your efforts you cannot keep it from your clothes as well. After a moment’s hesitation, you pull your clothes tight and wipe your body with the inside of the dark material, smearing yourself red as much as rubbing yourself clean. You wipe your hand on the man with a hole in his head, noticing his white trousers have ample material for the task as they balloon out strangely, like sails tucked in at wraps around his ankles. Despite it all, and after maybe a minute of rubbing and leaving his trousers unsalvageable, you feel the smear of a stain as you scratch an itch on your nose and cheek. It’s still all under your finger nails.

You step over the men, to the door, feeling…

He didn’t finish; didn’t seed you. That makes it better, right? You take a deep breath and suppress it, harder than anything else in your life. You crush it down inside of yourself, mentally pound it flat. Thinking about it could kill you. One of these days it just might, but not tonight. You can’t afford to get distracted. Like an overstuffed chest, the memory doesn’t close, but you can at least convince yourself it’s tidy and stop your hands from shaking. It’ll have to do.

You pull the latch and let it open, slowly.

Before you lies a hallway, lain with a faded threadbare carpet and lined with a sparse collection of wall hung lanterns. To your right, doorways and darkness, ending in a window to the starry sky. To your left, light, shining like a beacon and blinding after the gloomy room, illuminating the landing of the foyer and two large doors at their centre. Beyond that, almost faded to irrelevance, the corridor goes on to a distant window, marking one long stretch between the manors two ends. It’s just as empty there as it is here, and a quick count of the doors leaves no question; the captain lies beyond the double doors in the centre of the landing. Well-lit and the centre of everything; where else would she be?

You step out and move toward the landing light, limping a little after your rough treatment, and when you reach the mansions middle, an eye to the corner shows several people down at the base of the landings sprawling stairs, dressed in finery and chatting around some wooden crates that litter the wide foyer they occupy. Merchants, or perhaps supplicants bearing gifts? Looking at them sparks a memory, but you’re sure you’ve never seen any of them before. Whatever; they seem caught in their own conversation, and their distant mutterings clash with some far more enticing muffled words, barely recognisable, seeping from your double doored goal.

What now? You look to the room next door to the captains, sitting just in the shadow of the landing divided corridor. It’s quiet and dark, and a brief look beyond the wooden entrance confirms it to be empty. You slip in, looking for space to think.

It feels strangely stifling to be back in one of the dark and secluded rooms of the mansion after such a long corridor. At least this one doesn’t smell of blood and sweat. It’s stacked with various crates and boxes, thankfully unveiled and unfamiliar, though you don’t so much as sit on one let alone lie down. The boxes make it feel cramped and the single window is surprisingly tall, but sits in an alcove that chokes its moonlight to a poor strip. Plenty of hiding places though, and your black clad and blood-soaked self takes what it can get.

What now? What now? You’re not thinking very clearly, and it’s not the result of your recent head wound, but you push that aside for now. The room looks as though parts of it had been stolen, the rooms either side encroaching to take some of its space, particularly at the windows. What’s left is a room that’s wide near the doors, but narrows again and again until only a single window is left on the far side.

This whole building is a joke; a sin from its earliest lack of consideration, and no better for its current occupants.

Lost in thought and with nothing else to do, you move to the wall near the captain’s quarters. Should you rush in? What if they have guards? What if you wait and they leave? Voices come from beyond as the two captains talk to one another, and you press an ear to the wall as you figure out your next move.

A man’s voice, punctuated by a slamming sound of metal on wood, responds to something you didn’t quite catch.

“Sounds good. How many and what are we hitting them with?”

A female voice responds, as though remembering rather than answering. “Fifteen ships. And we’ll be using Cutters three, six of mine, your two, John Croke, Graith, Kitcher, and I’ll be trying out a new blood called Shan-something.”

The man responds with a grunt and a correction. “Shan-Mahjour. I’ve met him; kids gonna buckle”

“Maybe. If he does then it’s my problem and my prize.” The woman pauses before finishing with a predatory purr. “His ship is quite nice.”

Their talk is loudest near one of the corners, just before the last bulge that robs the room of its windows. The lack of sound from there would make sense if it were a side room to the captain’s quarters, adding the hurdle of more walls and doors between you and the speakers. What makes less sense is how the voices fade rapidly the closer to the hallway you are. More walls and doors? Yes; if you’d have to guess, you’d say there is another room there as well; perhaps an antechamber beyond the double doors, just before the room the captain occupies. You continue listening at the sweet spot you’ve found.

“So it’s...” You almost hear the flicking of the man’s fingers as they rise and fall. “Fifteen to fifteen? What about-”

“Not quite.” Captain Washkin interrupts. There’s no doubt in your mind that it is Captain Washkin. You’ve never heard her speak before, but the authority in the voice you hear now can only be matched by one reputation. “Actually, it’s three ships that will be attacking, with the rest hanging back.” Another pause for dramatic effect. “And two of those ships will be yours.”

A chair scrapes as it’s quickly pushed back, clattering to the floor.

“Bullshit!” You tense up. There is **** in that voice.

Captain Washkin, meanwhile, is calm. “There are two tricks in Conjack, which is where the ambush happens. I can show you-”

“The Navy will have back ships!” The man, clearly by contrast, the short and currently very angry Roland, yells as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And there is no trick to the Conjack constellation, except a clockwise current, which everyone knows about!”

Another chair scrapes, this time with far more care and precision.

“Let me get my map.” The captain sounds calm; in control, despite his outburst. “Come on. There’s something else I want to show you anyway.”

You hear footsteps begin to move, and soon an unseen door clicks as it’s opened, confirming your antechamber theory with a satisfactory clarity. You turn your head, watching them as they cross the room, as though the walls were made of glass, tracing the sound of their footsteps.

Wait, they’re after a map? What if it’s in here!

You look around for a panicked moment, searching for any suspicious boxes, perhaps overflowing with paper. You see none, each box too large and industrial for easy access, and not even a cabinet or a dresser that could hold such delicate items as maps. You sigh with relief, then catch yourself; don’t you want them to come here?

Fear returns. What if it’s in the room with the two dead bastards!? No, there were no maps in there… but what if she call for one of them to help her!?

The double doors open as they keep talking, and a half second later, you deflate to a nearby box as their footsteps take them in the opposite direction, to the other, presumably corpseless, half of the mansion. You should have hidden the bodies. Is there still time? Gods, more stupid mistakes!

Your self-chastisement ends with an unusual sight. The box you lean on is glowing. At least one part of it is glowing; specifically, a little circle on the side nearest the wall. You move the box, which is comparatively small and thankfully light, and the glow grows yet doesn’t move. It sticks to the same space, sliding along the box as you move it, and it quickly appears that its source is not the box at all. Its source is the little hole in the wall behind it.

You put the box down a little ways away and poke the hole, turning the prick of a pin, to the space of a nail, and very quickly a finger. The plaster wall falls to powder as you poke it, and soon you can look through and see a candle lit room with a bed in its centre. The room is empty, predictably, or what you can see of it is, with the area where they were talking just a little out of view.

You think quickly, pushing aside the throb in your head and capitalising on the seconds since the captains’ departure. All this time and still no plan has come to you, but could you use this? The hole you could use to spy, obviously, but the captain’s absence is also an opportunity. Maybe you could sneak around and get in through the double doors? Lie in ambush and get the drop on them somehow? It seems a risk, but it’s not impossible; the landing is wide enough, the stairs are high enough that staying low should allow you to approach without the men below noticing. The room has at least one extra room coming off it, so you would have somewhere to hide. The only question is if there are guards between, in the antechamber room.

Your gut says no. The way they were talking, not to mention what your spyhole shows, convinces you that they were certainly alone in the main room. The room just outside of that… well, there was no sound from it at all, and still isn’t. If there was a guard, doubtless both captains would want one present to avoid ambush by the other, yet when they walked through, there was no shuffle, no sounds of men standing to attention, or even a break in the conversation, which did end when they left through the double doors. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but it has to be empty. Could you bet your life on it though?

Simply staying and watching seems safe, on the face of it, but you have a room full of bloody bodies behind you just waiting to be found and nowhere to hide them. Plus, what if the Captain leaves when her business is concluded? What if her business takes hours and hours? It’s little good seeing the perfect time to strike if you’re not in striking range.