Page 80 of Captive of the Pirate King
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Locke tugs at the chain around my neck, pulling me around to face him. I seethe through my clenched teeth, fighting the tears that are trying to flood my eyes.
“I could force you to stay, you know,” he says softly. “You can’t leave without my permission.”
“And you love that,” I hiss. “The control.”
“I do love control. I love power, and wealth, and beauty, and influence. Whoever says they don’t appreciate such things is lying.” His hot breath puffs against my lips.
The carriage has stopped now, and I’m dimly aware of some great wall of white stone and towers and windows on my right. But my world is Locke’s tense face and his pale, penetrating eyes.
“My Lord,” says a cool, polite voice. A female voice.
Locke slackens the chain and turns to face the speaker—a tall woman with steel gray hair and blue eyes. Her bone structure is incredible—a lasting beauty though she’s probably well into her sixties.
“Madam Thora,” says Locke. “You look well.”
“As do you, sir. We are glad for your return.” Her voice dips low. “Your substitute has been growing rather frantic. Things are usually quiet when you’re gone on these little voyages, but not this time, I’m afraid. There are matters you must deal with. Things he can’t handle.”
“I’ll see him at once. Oh, and Thora—this is my whore. I claimed her from a ship we conquered on the voyage. She’ll need rooms near mine so I can summon her at my pleasure.”
“Very good, sir,” says Thora, but her gray eyebrows rise significantly.
“For now, she’ll come with me, until the rooms are ready,” Locke continues. “Have all the reports, labor documents, manifests, and trade lists sent to my study at once. I’ll need to review them tonight. Oh, and I’ll want a horse after nightfall, so I can make a trip over to Riddle Street. I’ll take dinner in my room after that. I’ve promised the people a gala tomorrow evening—dancing, feasting—we can have it in the back gardens. Make it big, Thora. The grandest party yet.”
“As you wish, my Lord,” replies Thora smoothly.
Before we leave the carriage, Locke presses several gold pieces into the driver’s hand. “For your silence,” he says.
“My Lord.” The driver bows deeply.
Hopefully he’ll keep the argument he overheard to himself. If he doesn’t, the little ruse Locke and I have employed will be over all too quickly. Here in Ravensbeck, it’s less likely that his authority would be unseated because of a merciful act—but his decision to spare my life would still be viewed as weakness, an inconsistency, a failure to follow his own laws. And a king who thinks himself above the law is sure to inspire more resentment than respect.
Locke grips my arm above the elbow and hustles me into the house, across a broad entry hall, through the arch between two curved staircases, into a long room where clusters of people chatter quietly. We hesitate in the doorway, and I sway lightly against Locke because I still have my sea-legs.
Before us, a long stretch of black carpet leads up to a dozen steps. At the top of the steps, on a high platform, a man lounges on an ebony throne. From the back of the throne splays a burst of black carven spikes, and on one central spike a gold skull is impaled.
The man on the throne is shirtless, wearing black pants, a black scarf, and a black crown resembling the one currently perched on Locke’s head. His dark wavy hair bears a white streak.
He sits up straight as we pause in the doorway of the throne room. Locke gives a quick side jerk of his head, a signal to his double, and then he hurries me to a door in the corner of the room. We traverse a narrow, gloomy hallway and then step into a study lined with bookcases. Its main feature is the glossy chestnut-brown desk in its center.
A door opposite us bursts open, and the man from the throne rushes in. He’s much closer now, yet his resemblance to Locke is still startling.
“Thank the gods,” he gasps. “You’re back! We have problems, Ruen—big problems. Not here in Ravensbeck—everything’s fine here, and I followed your orders to the letter—doled out some lashes, settled the trade dispute with the Garnin privateers, handled the refitting of Pier Seven—but outtherethings are bad, out at sea. Ships have gone missing, Locke—there are reports of them being sucked into some churning asshole of a storm. The people are very unsettled. Some of them have lost loved ones—others aren’t sure if their men are dead or alive, because about half a dozen of the usual ships haven’t been here in weeks. People keep asking me what I’m going to do about it and I don’t know what to tell them! And I’m so tired of painting this lock of my hair white, keeping my distance from everyone, and having your tattoo drawn on my back every day. Promise me you’re not planning to leave again for a long, long time.”
“Veronica,” says Locke, “this is Puckley, one of the original crew members of theRaven’s Frenzy. Despite all appearances, he’s actually quite intelligent.”
“And what he lacks in wisdom, we supply,” adds another voice, as two more men enter the room.
One of the men is tall and thin, dressed in a sleek black coat and a black top-hat. His snow-white skin is tattooed black around the eyes and across the lips. The tip of his nose and the hollows of his cheeks are tattooed as well, giving him the rictus grin of a skeleton. His eyes shine the brightest blue I’ve ever seen.
The other man’s hair falls in a dark sweep over one eye. He tosses it back as I watch, and a flicker of red dances across his fingers. Magic of some kind. He wears a dark suit in a style unfamiliar to me, all crisp edges and triangular lapels. And his eyes glow scarlet, like the energy fluttering visibly around his fingers.
“Kardon.” Locke nods to the man with the scarlet eyes. “And Cyprus.” Another nod to the tattooed skeletal man. “These three handle everything when I’m away.”
“He’s the face,” Kardon says, pointing to Puckley. “I’m the brains, and Cy here—well, he brings the pain when it’s needed.”
Cyprus bares narrow white teeth at me. “And who are you, sweetness? I don’t recognize you, and I know everyone in Ravensbeck. Never forget a face. It’s a curse.” He elongates his “s” sounds, like the predatory hiss of a snake.
