The Pirate of Fathoms Deep (3 page)

As promised, they stopped after a couple of hours. Lesto unslung his satchel, found a jug of water, and gratefully helped himself. It had a strong mineral taste, but it was better than a lot of water he'd drunk over the years. He passed the jug to Shemal and pulled out food. There was enough to keep them for three days, which, according to what Shemal said, would suffice until they reached the next village.

He should have been able to remember the name of it, but he'd never spent much time in Gearth and certainly not in such remote parts. He couldn't wait to never see them again.

When he'd eaten several bites of food and felt moderately less inclined to murder the whole world, Lesto asked, "I don't suppose those two halfwits said anything about my men? We were dining at a tavern when they grabbed me. Slipped something in my beer, I think."

"They said they were all drugged, and I can't see why they'd lie about that," Shemal replied stiffly. Then he paused, a bite of cheese halfway to his mouth. He looked up, a deep frown cutting into his face. "What do you mean you were dining at a tavern with your men? They took you while you were surrounded by Fathoms Deep? Wearing Fathoms Deep uniforms? With everyone calling you Commander?" He slipped into Farlander, muttering several words that required no translation, then abruptly switched back to Harken to say, "How they are still alive after all these years of bungling, I will never understand."

Lesto heaved a sigh. "I'm more bitter that I'll never live down being successfully kidnapped by those two halfwits only to be rescued by the same bastard who once punched me in front of half the imperial army." Sarrica would howl about it for hours and bring it up at least three times a day for half a year.

A brief grin stole across Shemal's face, but he ducked his head to hide it and shoved the last bites of food into his mouth. "Come on," he said a couple of minutes later, his levity gone like it had never existed in the first place. Lesto was clearly not the only one who couldn't wait for him to be back in Harken. "The more we walk, the less likely they are to find us."

"They'll be on horses, according to you," Lesto said as he slung the satchel back over his shoulder and fell into step behind Shemal. "We stand no chance on foot."

"I wish them luck figuring out which path we took. The ground around here is hard, dusty, doesn't hold footsteps well. I doubt anyone in their group can track worth a damn, if the best kidnappers they were willing to pay for were those half-dead minnows. They also have to get that stupid cart fixed, and they won't realize they no longer need it until too late. Hopefully, anyway." Lesto didn't need to see him to know the fleeting grin that was there. "Regardless, I think we've bought ourselves enough time to get somewhere more useful."

"Let's hope," Lesto said. Once he reached a town large enough to have an imperial garrison, he would be safe—and once more in a position to knock people over until he was satisfied there were no more halfwits standing. The world's most irritating kidnappers had taken his weapons and money, but they'd left his uniform and rings: the Fathoms Deep signet and the imperial signet with his name carved inside. Those were worth infinitely more than money, and it was all to the good they hadn't seemed to realize that.

A matter of weeks and he'd be home again and could put this whole stupid, ridiculous mess behind him, ghost ships, kidnappers, pirates and all.

Hours had passed, but Shemal's heart had yet to stop doing its best to beat right out of his chest.

His fingers skated across his stomach, the tattoo there burning with memory and the fear that somehow Lesto would see it. Then what would Shemal say?

A hundred hundred times his mother had warned him he would one day get exactly what he deserved for being a restless, uncaring devil.
Only the ocean can do as it pleases without consequence.
A man who acted with all the arrogance of the sea always got his comeuppance in the end.

But what did Shemal have to fear? He had lost count of the successful raids he'd been part of over the years. He was well-seasoned and still in good shape. He'd once punched the High Commander of the Imperial Army and lived to tell the tale. Not that he had told it. He should have been locked away for the rest of his life but had been given an abbreviated pardon sentence and was a free man with a clean record. What did he have to fear? Nothing.

Except the way his heart raced whenever he so much as thought about Lesto. The way all it took was one look for Shemal to agree to whatever Lesto suggested. The way, even after months and months of trying, he couldn't forget the way it felt to have Lesto beneath him, his rough fingers bruising Shemal's skin as he gripped tightly and begged for more.

The way he was trying to go respectable on the futile, flimsy hope that Lesto might give him a chance at being more than a dirty secret.

And remembering that soured everything. He had managed to convince himself he was content with fucking the High Commander and walking away. Then he'd been informed he'd been offered pardon work on Fathoms Deep land. No doubt expected to report directly to His Grace periodically. Shemal had heard of such scenarios a thousand times before. He wasn't interested in being some lord's kept whore.

Fool him for thinking Lesto might be better than that.

Yet he'd tried to go respectable anyway, and now he here he was, risking his fool neck to save the man who'd unknowingly been dictating Shemal's life and driving him mad for the past year and a half.

Shemal stared across the short space between them to where Lesto had already fallen asleep. He'd fought it, but after a long few days of kidnapping, walking, and scowling in a way that was far sexier than it had any business being, staying awake was a lost battle. Shemal was impressed Lesto had lasted as long as he did.

Then again, it must take a person of incomparable mettle to command all the military forces of Harken
and
be a near-constant presence at the side of the High King. Back home, the term for people with such fortitude was
storm tamer.
It wasn't a term used lightly. It definitely wasn't a term applied to thieving, bloodthirsty, unworthy Mainlanders.

But the first time he'd seen Lesto, striding across the yard, jangling sharply with every measured step, everyone else shifting and moving to revolve around him… The yard had been a roiling mass of chaos, all tired, angry guards and scared, volatile prisoners. They'd been one step away from turning into a battleground. Lesto had stepped out and a calm had followed in his wake. Hundreds of eyes had followed him, filled with respect, admiration, and far filthier thoughts, but Lesto hadn't seemed to notice.

He'd approached Shemal's group and told them to shut up and calm down. Shemal had punched him just to see what he would do. To watch him break the way imperious, arrogant Mainlanders always broke when faced with an actual challenge. To prove Lesto didn't deserve all the fawning admirers surrounding him. Lesto
hadn't
broken, though. He'd fallen back half a step, stared at Shemal with disbelief and respect . He'd laughed as he told the guards to haul the fucking pirates away. He'd strode off like a rushing tide sweeping across the sand and leaving it smooth.

Shemal swallowed and looked away, stared up at the stars, absently marking his location by them and aching for something familiar to anchor him. Since being captured and charged with piracy and smuggling—he hadn't known about the weapons, neither had most of the others, which was why they'd been let off with pardons—he hadn't found a place to settle that felt right.

He certainly wasn't welcome back among old friends, though that was an overgenerous word for them since, like any Mainlander, his fellow pirates were more than happy to throw an Islander overboard if they thought it would get them out of trouble.

Shemal hadn't felt bad about giving up the worst of the lot, not by a grain. That had gotten him free and clear in less than a year, and he'd been trying to sail a proper course ever since.

Just his damned luck that the first bit of trouble to come his way in so long also brought with it the whole reason he was trying to behave in the first place. He wished they'd managed to kidnap the stupid earl they'd actually been after.

The clenching in his gut revealed the lie, not that he'd really been fooling himself.

He turned his head again, wished there was more than moonlight to see by. Come daylight, Lesto would be too rested and aware for Shemal to get away with staring.

The stupid bastard looked good with an eyepatch, like some chief who was the pride of his clan, had protected them through several storms and beaten off imperial corpse fuckers, and had more lovers than he could keep up with and more children than he could count.

Picturing Lesto with other lovers made him feel like he'd drunk saltwater for hours straight. Given all the time that had passed and, well,
Lesto
… He probably had a lover. A real one. Not some stray pirate he'd have to keep secret.

Swearing softly, Shemal sat up, folding and crossing his legs, resting his elbows on his knees and sinking his fingers into his hair. Once they obtained horses, it would only be another day at most before they were somewhere that had a garrison. After that, Lesto would go back to his life and Shemal to his.

Three days to the nearest village, and an additional day to reach a well-sized town. Four days to…what, exactly?

"Why am I not surprised you're one of those who never fucking sleeps?" Lesto asked, voice rough with sleep and not at all unpleasant. A hundred wistful thoughts spun through Shemal's mind, but he pushed them away. "What's keeping you awake? I doubt anyone is going to find us tonight. They don't strike me as the sort of people to work that hard. If so, they'd have kidnapped the correct person, or at least found a better cart."

Shemal laughed. "Even if they weren't that lazy, which they are, the chances of them finding us are about as likely as finding a gold ring lost at sea. I didn't mean to wake you."

"I never sleep long, especially when I'm not in my own bed," Lesto said. He pulled the satchel he'd been using as a pillow close and pulled out cheese and bread, breaking the bread in half and handing a portion to Shemal. "So why are you awake?"

"I don't sleep well in strange places either. Too many years of waiting for trouble to appear on the horizon."

Lesto snorted. "What trouble could possibly find you out here?"

"Incompetent kidnappers and angry commanders," Shemal retorted, grinning when Lesto snorted. "I almost wish I could see their faces when they figure out what they've really done, but I'd prefer to stay as far away as possible because there's no telling how dangerous their client is." He sighed and took a bite of sharp, salty cheese and soft, faintly sweet bread. It wasn't the flat bread cooked over open flame that they ate back home, piled with fresh vegetables (and fish when he couldn't avoid it), but it wasn't the worst he'd ever eaten. Almost any food was better than none. "So what were you doing all the way out here?"

He almost withdrew the question when Lesto's mouth flattened. It wasn't like he'd expected an answer. But just as he started to ask a different question, Lesto said, "A ship washed up on shore, all hands dead—murdered rather brutally. The cargo wasn't touched, though. It was like the mercenaries climbed aboard, murdered everyone, and slunk away again.

A chill ran down Shemal's spine. "Were their throats slit with a serrated blade? Were some of them missing their right hands?"

Lesto's head snapped up. "How did you know that?"

Shemal swallowed the lump of cheese suddenly stuck in his throat, fumbled with his own bag until he found the water they'd refilled just before deciding to stop for the night. "I only came across them once, when we were stuck in port because of a storm. This was across the sea in Treya Mencee. A group of men dressed in black, with white hands dripping blood as their crest. They're called the Hands of Death. A not much talked about group of mercenaries who work unofficially for the royal family. If that entire ship was slaughtered by the Hands of Death, then somebody pissed off a Treya Mencee royal, and they've sent a warning."

"I've never heard of them," Lesto said. "I know all the mercs that work for Treya, and I've never heard a whisper of them."

"You wouldn't," Shemal said flatly. "That's not how they work. I wouldn't know except I was with a rough crew at the time because my last ship had been waylaid by port authorities and they were my only way home. Once the storms let up, we were gone, and I never saw shadow nor splash of them again. But they stick in the mind. If I were you I'd figure out who or what was on that ship that'd piss off the Treya Mencee royal family, and I'd do it quickly."

There were several beats of silence then Lesto said gruffly, "Thank you."

Shemal shrugged, wished he knew why his stupid heart had started thudding madly again. He was thirty-eight years old, far too old to be acting like a kid with his first infatuation.

"So how's life as a free citizen?" Lesto asked, though the question sounded a bit sour.

"Boring. I really hate goats. But it's better than accidentally smuggling weapons. As my mother would say, everything settles at the bottom eventually."

Lesto snorted softly. "That sounds more ominous than I think it's meant."

Shemal flashed a quick grin. "I guess it loses something in the translation."

"Unlike your insults, which seem to carry over well enough. I'm not sure what you get up to on those islands when your favorite insults are mother fucker and corpse fucker."

"That just conveys our low opinion of Mainlanders," Shemal retorted.

Lesto grunted at that, but did not otherwise reply.

Had Shemal said something wrong? He'd thought they were having fun.
Flirting,
his stupid, unhelpful mind pointed out. Shemal ignored it. What point was there to it? He wouldn't be a dirty secret, and someone like Lesto wouldn't—couldn't, if Shemal felt like being fair—have him any other way. Whatever Shemal's hopeless fantasies about making himself respectable enough, it would never happen. An Islander with a criminal past was never going to be anything but a tool or an amusement to a Mainlander duke, especially when that duke was half a step from the throne.