A sparkling, crackling whoosh of fire from the tip of her pipe interrupted her. It leapt up to the ceiling. She cried out a curse and dropped the pipe she’d loaded with black powder. She stamped on the scattered flames trying to set the garbage alight, but soon the gunpowder burned itself out.

“Dammit, second one this week.”

Kip was round-eyed. “Are you—are you in danger?” he asked.

“Of course I am,” she said. “But I’m very hard to find. And I’m very well protected.”

“I found you no problem.”

“That’s because I meant you to find me, little Guile. Besides, haven’t you seen my men?”

“Um…” Kip had thought he’d been watched.

“Black clothes, silver shield sigil? Hmm, say that six times fast. Well, good, then perhaps they’re almost worth what I’m paying them.” Janus grabbed another pipe off the wall and tamped it full of tobacco. “Now where were—Oh, never mind, come upstairs.” Kip followed her as she kept speaking. “Here’s the catch.”

I knew it!

“I won’t let you take a card until you’ve lived it.”

“Lived it?”

“Lived the memory in the card. Like before. In case you lose it, I don’t want those memories lost.”

“How about, um, instead of taking your worth-a-fortune original cards, how about I take copies? You know, like people usually play with? Normal people, I mean.”

Janus Borig scratched the side of her nose with her new pipe’s stem. “That is… that is the most sensible idea I’ve heard in a long time. It would also allow me to put the blind man’s marks on the cards, which would make Lord Guile far more likely to allow you to use them. Kip, you’re brilliant.”

Brilliant? She hadn’t even thought of using cheap cards. Janus Borig was so smart, it was a miracle she could get dressed in the morning. Him thinking of the normal thing wasn’t evidence of being smart; it was the opposite.

“Great,” she said cheerily. “Well, let’s make you a deck.”

Chapter 53

Back into the same one. There was something important about this one. He had to find the right time. He had no idea what he was doing, but he had to learn. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

~Gunner~

Captain Burshward is a bit crabbed this morning. That might have had something to do with us killing two of his men and presently attempting to make off with his fine galley, his excellent rowers, his rich cargo, and his miserable self.

“Captain Gunner is going to ask you one more time, Cap’n Burst Wart,” I say. “I need that chain key.” I scowl. “I suppose that wasn’t a question, was it? But that was.”

The captain and his brother and two officers are seated, hands tied behind their backs, on the gunwale. And on this galley, it is a gunwale. Their two cannons are propped up on it. It was only twenty years ago that all ships were thus, before some genius had the idea to make gunports. In a mere two decades, the idea spread all around the Cerulean Sea—but maybe not beyond it. Guns braced on the gunwale are less accurate left to right, and of course, they can’t shoot low—ships have to stay far out, because if they get closer, they’d just be blowing away each other’s rigging. When fighting oar-driven galleys, that isn’t the best way to cripple a ship.

The captain looks furious, his brother gray despite his naturally ruddy complexion, the two sailors with them terrified.

They’re Angari folk, from beyond the Everdark Gates. Big, burly men, wear their blond hair long and braided. Matrilineal. Sons a disappointment. Odd barbarian customs and strange cloying drink made with honey, but great sailors. Worthy of respect for being able to shoot through the Everdark Gates.

It is one thing that Captain Gunner hasn’t done. Yet.

“Where is the chain key?” I ask, real nice like. A finger’s breadth from his face.

The key is for the galley slaves’ chains, belowdecks. Not to free them or some such silliness, but because the oars are locked in place. It isn’t common, or I would have prepared for it.

’Course, it is just a chain. We can get through it. We have tools; we have powder. I can make a perfect charge in probably three minutes, and most likely not even set fire to the boat or kill anyone. But a key’s faster.

And the majority of Burshward’s men are coming back to the galley right now from shore leave in the city of Ru, their rowboat ambling over the waves, men hungover and sloppy. Not five hundred paces out. There isn’t even a swivel gun on deck to take care of them. We’ve only found two muskets so far, old matchlocks that I don’t want to trust my life to. If his men make it to the galley, they’ll likely kill us all.

“Nice galley,” I say. “Triple sweeps. Faster, but more likely to get the oars crossed, eh?”

“Tenth fastest in the blue god’s fleet, which means it’s the fastest fookin’ galley in Ceres’s piss puddle by a long tom’s shot,” he says. “Best oar boys in the world. Didn’t foul the sweeps once, not even coming through the Gates themselves.” I’ve noticed his galley slaves aren’t the usual skinny lot that stupider galley captains keep. You let your rowers waste away to nothing, and they get weak, and you get a slow boat. Burshward is smarter than that. His slaves are thick-muscled men, clean, no diseases, and big. Expensive to keep slaves in that good of shape, but worth it. Worth it double for a pirate, especially if they’re well trained. I’m taking a richer prize than I’d realized. If I can get away with it.

“Chain key,” I say. Real polite.

He says nothing. Brave man, balancing precariously on the gunwale. I can admire that.

“Rinky, sinky, dinky, or doe?” I ask.

“Rinky what?” Apparently he’s not familiar with the game.

“Rinky ’tis.”

I kick the first man in the chest. He flies overboard, lands with a yell and a splash. It isn’t easy to swim with your hands tied behind your back, but it can be done, for a while.

But not by Rinky. He panics. Thrashes. Sinkies.

“Gimme a number, Captain.”

“Wh-what?” A sudden look of fear.

“Ceres’s tits, Gillan!” the brother says. “Pick a fookin’ number!”

“Rinky, sinky, dinky, doe.” I pull out my pistol and point at each man in turn as I singsong the words. “Once was a pirate by the name of Slow. Picked a sinner as a winner, and here’s the way ’twould go—”

“Three!” the captain said.

“One…” I stick the barrel of my pistol against the captain’s forehead. Cock it. Watch him shiver, go blank. Grit his teeth in defiance an instant later.

“Two…” I release the hammer and bring up my knife with the other hand, to the brother’s throat. I draw the knife up to his chin through his thick braided blond beard. His eyes are squeezed tight shut.

“Three…” I pull the dagger back. “And this is the way it shall be.”

“No no no!” the third man yells.

I poke him hard in the forehead with one bony finger instead of stabbing him. He tries to keep his balance, but I keep pushing. He tumbles off into the water.

“Cap’n, we ain’t got much time,” one of my men tells me.