Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) (20 page)

“See there?” Ostre said, nodding smugly.

Rathe watched Loro push himself up on shaking arms.

“Now who needs a champion, you fat bastard?” Liamas demanded, earning shouts of approval from his supporters.

Loro clambered to his feet and wiped away a trickle of blood from his temple. He looked up slowly, a stony smirk pulling at his lips. “I’m done playing with you, little sister.”

With that, the two men roared toward each other, collided with a thud, their fists flying. When they broke apart, Loro was breathing hard and blood was flowing from his ruptured lips. For his part, Liamas looked better off. Most of the blood on him belonged to Loro.

Cradling his broken hand, Liamas waded in and kicked Loro in his barrel of a gut, doubling him over. The quartermaster straightened him with another thumping boot to the face. The fat man reeled, struggling to stay upright, and fell against the cheering crew. Before they could throw him back into the circle, Liamas closed in.

Using his good fist, he struck Loro a blow to the cheek, backhanded him, and then sank a fist into the man’s hanging belly in rapid succession. The crew flung Loro away, and he crashed face down on the deck. Liamas treated the crew to a triumphant shout, which most of them returned.

“Your man fought well,” Ostre said, holding out his hand.

“Fool,” Fira said, tears in her eyes as she turned to the stairs leading down off the poop deck. Nesaea glanced at Rathe, then joined Fira.

Rathe wasn’t paying much attention to the women, the Prythian giant, the crew, or Captain Ostre’s waiting hand. His eye was fixed on Loro, who had gotten to his hands and knees. Rills of blood ran over his face, making lurid patterns in the trampled slush on the deck. A growing number of crewmen began to take notice, and a hush slowly fell over them.

Liamas followed their stares. “Give over, you bloated bag of suet, or I’ll unman you in front of Fira, and take her for my own.”

“She’ll never be
yours
,” Loro said in a hoarse, woeful voice.

“We’ll see,” Liamas said.

“No,” Loro answered, struggling to his feet, “we will not.”

With a resigned sigh, Liamas moved in again, landing devastating blows against Loro’s face and ribs. The fat man grimaced, but did little to ward against the attack. His singular goal seemed to be driving closer to his assailant. The thin streams of blood on his face grew to rivers pouring from nasty splits over his cheekbones and above his eyebrows. The flood ran down his chest and the expanse of his gut, soaking the waist of his trousers. When it became obvious he was not going to lie down, Liamas gave up protecting his injured hand and let it fly. His efforts came too late.

Loro reached through the flurry and caught the giant Prythian by the throat. While Liamas pummeled him with renewed vigor, Loro used his other hand to catch hold of his opponent’s groin. The crew began squalling about foul play, but Loro paid them no more mind than he did Liamas’s frantic efforts to break free.

With a straining grunt, Loro bent his knees and hefted the Prythian over his head, then made a stumbling dash for
Lamprey’s
rail. Crewmen hurled him back, and Loro dropped the giant to the deck. Before Liamas rolled away, Loro began putting his boots to the man. The Prythian crossed his arms over his head, and Loro redoubled his efforts. He kept at it until the crew began to protest. Rathe belatedly understood Loro meant to kill the Prythian.

Vaulting over the poop deck’s rail, Rathe shoved through the ring of sailors, and spun Loro around. Still ensnared by a killing fury, he swung a bloodied fist at Rathe, who dodged back, then slapped the man hard across the face. A measure of awareness came into Loro’s eyes. Below the rage-filled stare, Rathe saw a man with a deeply wounded heart, and he realized none of this had to do with stung pride, but only Loro’s love for Fira.

“It’s finished,” Rathe said, leading him away from a groaning Liamas.

Chest billowing, blood and snot bubbling from his nostrils, Loro nodded weakly. “Aye, brother, it is over. Like you said before, it’s time to be rid of these wenches, and all the troubles that come with them.” He pulled free from Rathe and stumbled away, disappearing below deck.

“What did he mean?” Nesaea asked.

Rathe turned to find both her and Fira staring at him with hurt and anger smoldering in their eyes. “It was something I said to get him off all that talk of becoming a thief along the Sea of Muika.”

“Of course,” Nesaea said, flashing him a tepid smile. “I should’ve known.”

As they followed Loro, Rathe worried they did not believe him.
And why should they?
he thought. After all, he had already left them once before, back at Valdar.

Chapter 16

“How’s Fira?” Rathe asked, using his new blade to parry Nesaea’s sword thrust. Steel rang as their feet danced lightly over the icy deck. The snowfall had stopped the night before, but the gray skies promised more.

“Angry,” Nesaea said in a distracted voice.

Rathe lunged, his sword flashing at her unprotected breast. With startling swiftness, she whirled and raked his blade aside. He abruptly changed direction, forcing her to do the same.

“I guess that’s better than Loro,” Rathe said. “He took quite a beating.”

“Serves him right.”

“He was protecting Fira’s honor.”
And his love for her
, Rathe thought, but didn’t say.

Nesaea’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you call trying to kick a man to death?”

Rathe circled out of distance. “As I recall, you seemed as eager as anyone else to watch the fight. Besides, everyone was sure Liamas would crush Loro—even Fira. Seems to me that Loro had no choice but to make sure he was the clear victor.”

Nesaea jabbed the tip of her sword at Rathe’s middle. A half-hearted effort, at best. Smirking, he beat her blade aside. An instant later, her dagger whispered out of its sheath and slashed at his face. He leaped back, surprised he still had a nose, his own dagger coming to hand before his feet lit upon the deck. Nesaea crossed her blades to catch Rathe’s overhand strike, and swept it down and away, upsetting his dagger thrust. She changed direction, now forcing him to match her.

“What makes you think Fira needs her honor protected,” Nesaea said, “when she’s been doing fine for many years without him?”

“Most everyone needs protection, one time or another. Most often those who need it the most are those who’re too cocky to see that they need help.”

“
Cocky?
”

“What would you call kissing your lover’s rival?” Rathe could think of a few other choice words, but chose to keep them to himself, if only because he knew Fira well enough by now to guess she had only been prodding Loro for the sake of prodding him. A dangerous and foolish game better suited to children.

“She was only thanking a friend for helping with her seasickness,” Nesaea retorted, making a wicked slash at his legs.

Rathe leaped back, but this time she came at him hard, sword and dagger slicing through the cold air. Steel rang as he spun and gave her retreating, leather-clad rump a firm kick. Nesaea wheeled, a hectic splash of color staining her cheeks. Rathe found himself wondering if they were still talking about Loro and Fira.

“Between friends,” he said, “a word of thanks tends to suffice.”

Nesaea shrugged that off. “As it happens, Fira was
very
appreciative.”

Rathe loosed a derisive laugh. “Then it’s a good thing Liamas didn’t cure her of boils, or she might’ve bedded him right there in front of everyone.”

“Try not to be as big a fool as Loro,” Nesaea snarled, coming at him. Rathe fought her off, but their match was beginning to feel a bit closer to a true fight.

“In that case,” he said when out of reach, the stirrings of irritation flaring in his chest, “I’ll remember your opinion when a comely woman helps me overcome some difficulty or other, and I need to thank her in a
friendly
and
appreciative
manner.”

Nesaea’s cheeks grew redder, and her eyes squinted to dangerous slits. “Try it, Scorpion, and you’ll find yourself missing your stinger.”

“I prefer to keep my stinger,” Rathe said dryly, swatting aside her dagger before it could fulfill her promise. Her sword followed, but he had shifted off balance, and for a moment he feared she was about to cleave his arse. At the last instant, she twisted her wrist and spanked him smartly with the flat of her blade.

The watching crewmen’s roar of approval drew Captain Ostre’s attention. “Get back to work!” The booming command sent them scurrying, and put an end to Rathe and Nesaea’s match.

Rathe was about to congratulate her efforts, but Nesaea whirled and stalked away, her bare steel flashing dully. He looked after her, bemused.

“Best let her temper cool, lad,” Captain Ostre said, coming to a halt beside Rathe. For his part, Ostre had the good grace not to say much about the brawl between Loro and Liamas, though he was put out at having his quartermaster bedridden.

Rathe gave him a questioning look.

“Might not be obvious to most of these rogues,” Ostre said, absently scratching at his beard, “but I know a spat when I see one.”

“
Spat?
” The word strange on Rathe’s tongue. Before Nesaea, there had been plenty of woman who wanted to share a night of passion with the Champion of Cerrikoth, but nothing more.

“Spat,” Ostre repeated, “lover’s quarrel, call it what you will.”

“We were sparring,” Rathe said, sliding his blades into their scabbards. “As for Nesaea, she’s angry because she lost.”

Ostre fixed him with a doubtful eye. “Seems she had you there at the end.”

Rathe avoided rubbing his tender backside.

“Most often the best thing to do with women,” Ostre went on, “is to play the mummer.”

Rathe disagreed. “Seems the better choice is to drag grievances out in the open.”

“That’s because you’re young and foolish. Best to let women win … or at least let them
think
they won.”

“Best for who?”

“For you both, lad,” Ostre said with a heavy sigh, as if he didn’t trust his own advice.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Before Rathe could move away, Ostre caught his arm. “As it happens, I didn’t come to offer advice.”

“Then what?”

Ostre looked toward to the southern riverbank, not more than a hundred strides away. By now, the
Lamprey
had sailed well into the long and snaking gorge that ended at Ruan Breach. Rocky walls bounded the river and soared high, overtopped by listing firs and pines draped in fluffy cloaks of snow. “Some of my crew saw one of those riders again.”

“Edrik’s company, same as before?”

“It would seem so,” Ostre said slowly. “A scout, most like, keeping an eye on us.”

Rathe considered the
Lamprey’s
pace downstream. “They’re pushing their horses hard. How much farther before we come to the breach?”

“Not near far enough to tire the horses my brother sold them,” Oster said. “But after we get through, the river opens up. From there to the White Sea, we’ll be untouchable. In the meantime, we’re ready as we can be.” The crew had lined the rails with a ratty assortment of shields, and had put out barrels of salted water with buckets stacked nearby, to use against any attack of fire.

“But first we need to get through Ruan Breach,” Rathe said. The gorge was getting narrower by the hour, and the river swifter.

“Aye,” Ostre said again. “And that’s why I came to you. Nesaea has it that you’re a demon with a bow. A few good archers can keep our foes busy while my crew sails the
Lamprey
—once we’re in the gap, with the river surging, things can go wrong in a blink.”

“I’m a fair enough shot,” Rathe demurred. He had been the finest archer in the Ghosts of Ahnok. “As is Loro.”

“The more the better—long as your man can put the past behind him.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Rathe promised, but guessed there was no need. Loro was quick to anger, but quicker to smile. He had proven his point, if at Liamas’s expense. It was anyone’s guess if Fira would ever forgive her lover for making such a brutal and bloody scene.

~ ~ ~

Nesaea was forced to halt when the skinny cook bustled out of the galley carrying a steaming pot. When he glanced at her, her anger flared. “Don’t you have anything better to do than ogle every woman you happen across?”

The man’s eyes went wide. “Sorry, m’lady.”

“I’m not a lady, fool.”

“As you say,” he muttered, the contents of his pot sloshing as he squeezed by.

Shaking off her irritation, Nesaea continued to Loro and Fira’s cabin. She was about to open the door, but raised voices within gave her pause. Loro, it seemed, had come to apologize. Nesaea was sure he wouldn’t get any sympathy from Fira. He would be lucky to make it out with his skin intact.

She folded her arms and leaned against the wall, one foot tapping restlessly against the deck. That drumming tattoo ended abruptly when she realized the raised voices she heard were not spoken in anger.
Are they laughing?