...you wait.

The cells bars go from floor to ceiling and are spaced widely enough apart to see the full extent of the room while still keeping you trapped. The main stone wall is behind you, dry and flaking under your fingers but thick and heavy. The other three walls are bars; two showing the room and the third to your left showing the cell next door and the cells beyond that. It’s currently empty, save for some dry looking straw spread about the flagstone. It’s the same in your cell; dry threads that crackle under your fingers, spread thinly enough to be unsuitable for bedding. Perhaps they had animals in here previously. The bars look thick and robust, with those in front carrying a stout looking lock as well. They’re set poorly in the flag stones both on the floor and in the ceiling, with holes chipped and filled with inferior mortar. Scratches mark some of them. They look depressingly like they were made with fingernails.

You take a deep breath of the musky, sour air, ignoring the indefinable ‘human’ smell that clings to the back of your throat, and try to devise some kind of plan.

“So, your captain often coldballs you? Eh? Tells you who yer willy can and can’t get stuck in?” The words of the bald man cut across your mind like a rampaging bull. They’re directed towards the old man but his gaze is fixed on you as he says it. His movements are slow and steady; measured, and clearly giving him pleasure, yet they seem token, as though he would rather be elsewhere. You try not to think of who that ‘elsewhere’ would be.

The old man, meanwhile, looks more pained than pleasured and replies with gasping breaths.

“Show some respect. Ugh. If it wasn’t for our captain, your dick wouldn’t be, ah, where it is now.”

The bald man still looks at you, moving back and forth. It’s a stare that you can’t match, and don’t want to match. You look away.

“So she only lets her own crew get fucked?” He pauses to cough, once; dry and rasping. He’s not near, in fact the other two men are closer, but you still feel it reach your face. “Captain Roland would never stop us. Well, sept when a woman wants to join the crew or he takes a fancy to someone particular, then the captain deserves the first turn or two, as is right. But after that its share an share alike. We got 21 women on a crew o-“ He coughs again. “-on a crew of 177. They’re a busy lot I tell ya.”

Captain Roland. He must be the other captain; the one in charge of the second crew, the ones in yellow and red. You try to rack you brains, dredging up everything you know about him. You investigated all of Captain Washkin’s sub captains before even finding out about the island. 26 of her ships bear her colours and are captained by men and women loyal only to her. Only 3 of those ships are of any note, the rest considered to be of some lesser class by the more nautically minded. 19 of her ships, the 19 most dangerous, are captained by proven criminals who’ve seen fit to ally with her for their own reasons. Many are the worst of the worst, beating Captain Wahkin in pure savagery by far, but all held together by her tenuous thread. Captain Roland was little mentioned in your interviews; he’s supposed to be far to the north and, you think, in different colours; purple and something...green if you remember correctly. It wouldn’t be the first time a pirate has changed their colours to escape pursuit or bounty. You don’t suppose it really matters as long as everyone wears the same come boarding time. The Captain himself has a reputation for cruelty, those that’s hardly unusual among pirates. Unlike most though, he also has a reputation for shortness and... you try to think... oh yes, he’s supposed to be hot-headed as well. That may be useful if you meet him, but it still doesn’t stop you from hoping that you don’t. It doesn’t sound like he holds women in the highest regard.

“You know, last one to join, looked a bit like her. Called Suzi or some shit. Ran away from home to go on an adventure. Don’t think it agreed with her. Way looser than this one.” He grabs the woman’s hips and changes pace, as if for emphasis. His speed doesn’t change, but he somehow attacks her harder or deeper, sending jolts of impact through them both. “Not my fault, you understand; don’t go in for kids. If they ain’t got tits then what’s the point.”

His eyes wonder down your body, as if to take your measurements and compare them to his standards. You try to keep the discomfort he seeks off your face but the moment stretches, along with his stare. You decide to take the initiative.

“When am I going to see your Captain?“

The bald man grins. “She speaks!” He’s talked over by the older man, who pauses his actions to look at you.

“Shut the fuck up. Captain’ll see you when she’s ready.”

The bald pirate barks a laugh. “Ha! Yeah, when she done bein my Captains bitch.” The old head snaps around to look at him, yet he doesn’t speak, and the bald headed man goes on. “Oh? You saying she’s not fuckin his brains out right now?”

The older man continues to say nothing, but his face says ‘stop talking’ with enough volume to ring of the walls. The bald man pauses for a moment to judge the expression before continuing with his words and movement. “Oh come on...what do you recon? The great Captain Washkin. She on her knees? All fours like a bitch? Maybe she’s ridin im. Ohhh. Fine figure of a woman like that...good thing to think about when you’re in a sad cunt like this.”

The old man shakes his head and starts his movement again, eliciting a surprised grunt from the man he’s in. From this angle you can see the way the younger man in the stocks squirms and jumps as the older man digs in. His feet shuffling, his harry legs shifting and rising, his knees meeting and parting again as they search for comfort where none can be found. It looks a wholly unpleasant experience.

The bald man leans forward, addressing his sufferer. “What do you think m’dear? Is your captain’s cunt as sorry as yours?”

She doesn’t answer. No one does. She simply stares at the floor as the jolts continue to shake her. With a sidelong glance at the other mans self-distraction, the bald man smiles to himself, as though he won some kind or argument. He goes back to watching you, drinking you in, looking away only to correct his aim below. He continues to watch you even when you turn away; you can feel his predatory gaze linger. He watches you until he’s done.

You’ve never needed a bath more than after those eyes are through with you.

Time seems to blur as you wait anxiously. It alternates between too fast when you think about Captain Washkin, and too slow when you look about your current, dreary predicament. You watch the comings and goings of the cellar mutely as the search for your phantom co-conspirators rages. Of the pirates, the bald man stayed the longest, much to the woman’s displeasure. You and the other two prisoners are the only ones that have remained consistently, over the... maybe half an hour? -that you’ve been stuck here. Between you and them, it’s safe to say their stay has been the worse.

Others came and went of course. All men and at least a dozen in number. Some came to look at you, to confirm that someone was bold enough or stupid enough to try for their Captain’s life. Others came to fetch bottles of ‘the good stuff’, no doubt to help in their search, while others still came to partake in the bound couple’s unwilling services. You look away in such instances, though while you can shut your eyes to their pain, your ears are not so capable. You note that as the woman, she is the favoured of the two. Over the course of your time here, you chart her voice from silence, to moaning, to crying, and back again at least twice. No opportunity for escape presents itself. There’s always a guard, and no matter how much they distract themselves, no matter how hard, they always have a half eye spare to watch you. Even the one that was covered in scars -that only had half an eye left- used it fully as you shuffled into a more comfortable position. Currently, you share the room with a slack jawed fool who watches you openly from a nearby chair. He’d asked you a few questions when he sat down but after some consideration you had remained silent; you couldn’t tell if his questions were the work of a brilliant, if unorthodox, form of interrogation, or if he really is as big of an idiot as he seems. As time passed and his questions silenced into a gormless stare, you settled on the latter.

The sound of a door banging open fills the room.

“Get off, damn it! I tell you I aint with nobody! Captains made a mistake!”

A well-muscled group drags a struggling man down the stairs and into the cellar. He’s tall, but he looks like child between the two men on either side of him. “This is bullshit!”

A slightly smaller man, with a mop of blond hair, trots forwards and pulls open a cage door several cells down from you. “Shut your lying bastard mouth Sam! Captains never trusted you!”

Quick as a whip crack, the man responds. “Only cuz she’s a bitch! If you weren’t so far up-” He grunts as the smaller man rams his fist into his stomach. It looks painful, catching him off guard enough to let the other two throw him in the cell without trouble.

“I been lookin all over for you since we got here.” The blond man makes a sickening noise in the back of his throat, dragging back before spitting on the other man. He slams the door shut. “After all we an the captain done for you. You should be in with them!” He gestures towards the set of stocks, their occupants thankfully unoccupied. The man now in the cage slowly climbs back onto his feet, nursing his stomach with one hand. His tone changes to pleading.

“Come on Tony. I’m no traitor. Let me out. Let me go. Captain don’t need to know.” It takes on a far harsher and **** sound as the three men begin to walk back out the way they came. “Remember Doe Dyke! That pissy little village? You owe me Tony! Who shoved him!? Who held him down!? Ay? Who made him watch!?” He sounds hysterical as they disappear up the stairs. “All you done for me? All I done for You! Come on, please, To-TONY!“ The unseen door slams shut. “FUUUUCK! Fuck you Tony! Fuck you all! FUCK. YOU. ALLLLLL!” He starts banging on the bars, shaking them, kicking them, even ramming them with his shoulders. You don’t think you’ve seen anyone quite so mad. You suppose you can understand his frustration. Not only is he not working with you, you’ve never seen him before in your life.

He paces the small cell, each long step taking him from one end to the other. You’re smart enough to keep quiet. The idiot guard is not, squeaking his stool as he turns to watch. Their eyes meet.

“What are you lookin at Lock!? Fuck off! Go on! You an Fuckin Tony! Go suck each other’s dicks you fucking Drooler! You fucking dent-brained shit eating boz-head!” He punctuates his words with bangs, the bars sending reverberations to you through the floor.

The guard, like a man staring down certain **** but too stupid to do anything about it, responds. “Not supposed to. Supposed to look at her.”

You can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy; not everyone can be born quick minded, and you suppose for every quick mind there is a slow. Still, he’s out there and you’re in here. What does that say about the world?

“Shut the fuck up! Gods! I’ve shit bricks smarter than you!” He bangs the bars a final time, pushing himself back into the stone wall behind him. His words soften. “You know I’ve really wanted to strangle the shit out of you sometimes.” The guard doesn’t respond, simply watches as the unfortunate man slides down the wall and sits with arms on his knees.

You study him, waiting for him to calm enough for your questions. His hair looks a mess, as though he was wearing a hat or bandanna that was removed by ****. His rectangular face sports the strange combination of a moustache and a small patch of hair just below his bottom lip, which you note is split and bloody. His chest is bare and well-muscled -worthy of study perhaps, if your situation wasn’t so dire- while his legs are covered by faded red trousers sporting a dirty white strip down the side. He catches you watching.

“Of all the nights you could have fuckin...” He trails off, resting his head in his hands. He gives a “ffffughhhhh” before stopping completely.

You’ve seen that look before; a man who’s smart enough to know that ranting and raving solves no problems, but not smart enough to think of something else. It’s usually a look that appears with bars. He stares inward now, thinking of the future and the best way to avoid it.

You take a short moment to think of the best thing to say and to let him cool further. Developing a rapport would be good. He’s several cells away, but when you decide on your words, simply talking is loud enough to reach him.

“That man said he was looking for you anyway. What did you do?”

He doesn’t look up, leaving his two words of choice muffled into his arms. “Fuck off”

You bite your lip. What do you say next? A joke perhaps? An ‘I wish I could’ to break the ice? No. Better to stay on target.

“You may as well tell me about it.” Besides, your curiosity is tingling. What did this man do to get thrown in here?

“You’re a woman.” His response is as curious as it is correct.

“So?” you ask, unable to keep some of the sting out of it.

“Soooo, women don’t last long under the questionin they got planned for you. I’d prefer the captain heard what I got to say from me.”

There’s that cold shiver running down your spine again. It’s been a while. You try not to think about what they have in store for you, try to blot out the images that come into your head. You can’t. Not knowing for certain leaves your mind thinking the worst. Some of the things you think about would be overkill, even for pirates. The stocks linger in the corner of your eye. Your ‘questioning’ wouldn’t need sharp blades and red hot implements to get you talking, you’re sure of that. Perhaps when it comes, you should just tell the truth? Or would that simply be a quicker path to the same destination? You stare at the floor as you wonder aloud. “

What are they going to do to me?” Several cells down, you hear a mirthless chuckle, nervous in its own right. Suddenly, you can’t think of a thing to say.

Some time passes. Only about a quarter of an hour. It feels like a million years. When the door opens at the top of the stairs and the sound of multiple booted feet ring on the stone, you reassess. Did it feel like a million years? Strange that it suddenly feels like the blink of an eye. They come into view: four men of varying heights and sizes, all in some form of red and white. They pass the man in the cage without comment, though some spare hurt or disgusted glances as they walk by. They give the same look to the two in the stocks, who don’t even look up. All four of them join the guard at your doorway and look down at you.

From left to right, the first man is the same as before; a mop of golden hair, slightly shorter than average but still taller than you. The name Tony still rings in your ears. He’s one of the ones who didn’t even look at the man in the cage.

Second is a man who looks more rat than human; short for a man, though taller than yourself, he has a slight hunch and a pinched face, with all his features falling towards the middle and a chin week enough to jumble his teeth outward in a thoroughly ugly manner. His weak features would look more appropriate on a skinny bony body, but sea life had given him sea arms; an alpha rat, but still the least of the group by the way he stands more to the rear.

The third man is far more intimidating. He was one of the same that brought your fellow prisoner down, here to lend his bulk to your escort. He’s the tallest of the group and seems composed of hard slabs of muscle that strain against his clothes. A thick neck supports a square jawed head, which itself supports an out of place beak of a nose and a naturally cruel expression, like a delighted torturer looking at his next insect. From his attitude, it’s a miracle his nose hasn’t been broken more often than it has, and the myriad of small scars that interrupt his stubble tell you how many have tried. Nobodies that bad at shaving.

The final man is worlds apart from the others, especially the second. Handsome; with neatly cut black hair, deep grey eyes and a clean shaven jaw. He wouldn’t look out of place as a young noble or even as an actor in some romantic play. He sports the average muscular build of a craftsman and an above average height, somehow appearing reputable despite his chosen profession.

None of them have weapons that you can see, yet all would be capable of escorting you on their own. Captain Washkin is taking no chances with you.

The blond haired man rattles the keys as he opens the lock on your door, and you pre-emptively decide to stand, slowly, carefully; you don’t want to make any sudden moves that could set these men on edge, and with your arms bound behind you, you don’t want to trip and have nothing but your face to break your fall. He reaches in and grabs your upper arm, dragging you out wordlessly, and you’re passed to the two biggest, the tall one and the handsome one, without resistance. Each of them grabs an arm, guiding you as you walk out of the cellar and up the stairs. The other two flank you; the blond haired man leading at the front, the ratty man following behind, all guiding you up the stairs and into the light at its end.

What follows is a blur, quite literally. It would seem they have been told not to dawdle and a fast paced march sees corridors, lanterns and doors pass by too quickly to get your bearings. People walk to and fro, searching the many rooms of the building, and your group is enough to make the hallway instantly feel crowded when it meets any other people. They usually stand aside; watch you pass with awe or feigned disinterest, only to descend into hushed whispers when you’re gone. You’ve never liked being the centre of attention and you find yourself curling up; hunching shoulders and looking down, trying to escape their eyes and their speculations. You pass through a dark room filled with crates and people carrying lanterns, into a brightly lit foyer. A group of finely dressed men stand in the centre of the wide room, by some boxes at the foot of the stairs, clearly too well dressed for pirates: merchants most like, and here to purchase pilfered goods at a discount rate. They watch you as you’re marched past them, their eyes judging and assessing. Traces of worry line their faces as well. In some respects, you’re here because of them; it was their competition that helped you find this place. Still, they couldn’t know that. It’s more likely such men simply fear assassins more than anything else. Disruptions to their business would be a close second.

You’re taken up the wide stairs, your feet barely touching the faded threadbare carpet. Double doors wait at the top, though you don’t see them until your marched through. It leads to a small room filled with a wide table, which is itself scattered with maps and lists, stained with inkblots and marked with scratches and gods knows what else. You have time to study some of the pages as the group stops, waiting while the blond haired man walks forward and wraps his knuckles on another inner door. You can’t focus on their contents: lists of supplies and manifests of men. You can’t focus on anything. The most important moment of your life lies behind that door. What do you say? What do you do? The plans you made while sitting in that cell seem distant now. Unrealistic. The prospect of **** suddenly seems stunningly realistic in your mind, making your mouth dry up and your forehead bead with moisture. Perhaps you can get her to delay your interrogation? You’re really not feeling well right now.

The door opens and the blond man waves you through. More so, he waves your guards through, them being your principle mode of transportation right now. They walk you around the table and enter the distant room, and as you cross the threshold, you see that it’s a bedroom. A door is on your far left, a bed in the middle and an open window to your far right. Chests and wardrobes line the room and piles of clothes litter the floor. There’s a round table near the door, but it’s hard to see with your guards in the way.

“Tony, wait outside. Don’t let anyone in without my say so.”

The blond haired Tony gives a sharp nod before he turns and leaves, his departure revealing the source of his instruction.

A woman stands in the middle of the room, leaning against the end post of the four post bed, idly tying a silk cord loosely around her waist and a matching silk dressing gown; it’s light blue, with a black fur around its edges, yet it’s clearly not meant for keeping its user warm; indeed, from the way its thin material clings to her form, you’re not sure it’s meant to keep its wearer decent either. A light tug holds it in place and keeps the expensive looking material from falling open, and your eyes, **** to look up, see that being tied at the belly, the gown flows and hangs off her wide hips, and each of the gowns centre halves presses against an impressive bust, closely enough to show its size and shape to anyone with a passing interest. The long hem dancing about her ankles is the only decent thing about it.

As your eyes linger, what you can’t help but notice is what’s between her breasts. The necklace, the Amulet of Abyet, looted from the treasury of a very bitter noble, glitters its distinct blue tear stone jewel with a radiance that makes her gown seem grey by comparison. It’s held in intricately pattered silver and gold, and its worth is far greater than the simple sum of its parts. Historical significance aside, its proof of her ****, and as such it’s worth her bounty in gold and land.

“Keren, you go down to the foyer and keep an eye on those merchants. They don’t leave till I say.”

The ratty man moves out the door at the instruction and your eyes finally work up the courage to look at your captors face. She doesn’t look 35. It’s the first thing you think as you take in her features. Her exact age isn’t really known of course, some put her as older; 40 or even 50. That’s not why you think of her age though. She should be ten years older than you, yet she looks almost the same age. Shoulder length hair frames her face in sweat draggled lengths of dirty gold. Her eyes are defined by black lines of makeup and her full lips are painted to life with a red shade, though the more you look at her makeup, the more you start to see the imperfections. Sweat has cut rivulets in the blush of her perfect skin, revealing the more natural tone beneath, and her black lined eyes have run slightly, sending some of it trickling to her cheekbones. Her bright red lipstick does not fully meet the need of its canvas, having been smeared by recent kisses, and the illusion is shattered completely when you look in her eyes: sea blue, but filled with more than a lifetime hard years. From those eyes, you can believe the people who say she’s much older. They look at yours and don’t look away.

“Symon, Davod, you stay.”

You shift nervously as the door closes behind you. The second thing you think is how much taller she is than you expected.

Her lips twist into a smile as she walks towards you, bare feet padding like a predators paws. “Well...I assume you know who I am?” It’s not a question that requires an answer, more a question a cat asks a mouse at dinner time. “So... the question is...” She stops before you, towering over you in a way that’s only partially to do with her height. She actually leans down slightly to look in your eyes, the smell of sweat and perfume coming off her in waves. “Who, ‘in the name of the black between my stars’, are you?”

The moment of truth. How to handle this. Attack isn’t an option. You could tell the truth? Put all your cards on the table and see what hand you’ve been dealt. She’ll no doubt appreciate the honesty. The fact that your here to kill her, not so much.

You could...sweeten the truth? Tell her you’re... a thief, here for gold. Surely better than ****, but only if she believes you.

Bah! They both sound bad. Perhaps you should avoid saying anything? You’ve seen knowing silence turn an interrogation around with the authority it brings, but it could be insulting in its own right. You remind yourself that it’s less about what she does to you and more about escape and survival. Silence could buy you time.

She arches an eyebrow at you, her smile increasing as she seems to read your thoughts. What would get you out of this? What should you do?