Our destination was a tall inn, some distance down the docks. The Bell and Barrow was one of the better establishments in Whallum, its plaster intact and painted a pleasant, sea-foam green. Cream moldings surrounded each window and separated its four levels, depicting various aspects of port life—eccentric hawkers, ships, fish, farewelling lovers.
The inn wife opened the front door, her wispy grey hair tucked under a neat cap, and she gestured us up to the second floor.
At the top of the stairs, Fisher and I found ourselves facing an open door. Beyond was a private room, graced by a roaring hearth, a table for six, and two windows looking out over the harbor.
“Lieutenants Fisher and Rosser.” A slim man with black hair and small teeth gestured us into the room. “I am Kaspin. Come in, please.”
I slowed my steps, letting Fisher, the senior officer, lead. She shook Kaspin’s hand, delivering pleasantries as I eyed our host.
Kaspin was one of Whallum’s most powerful criminal lords. Any pirate docking in port, any highwayman worth their powder or madam who wanted to keep her whores knew Kaspin, paid homage to him, and respected him well.
I despised him. But pirate hunters were not much higher than pirates in the eyes of the world, and so Captain Slader—and myself—came to the sharp-eyed bastard like everyone else.
There were four others gathered in the room, aside from Kaspin. One was a wiry fellow with an exaggerated grey wig, sitting with his back to the roaring hearth. He peered at me in open hostility over pinched, flushed cheeks—a native of Whallum if I ever saw one. The second was Whallish, too, and obviously Kaspin’s muscle, a man built for pulling plows and wrestling bears. He stood next to a young woman in a chair, and I knew without asking that she was the Stormsinger we had come for.
The young woman’s clothes were worn, with skirts that might once have been yellow and white calico half covered by a long, men’s coat. Her dark brown hair was bound up under a white cap and what I could see of her face was pretty. The rest was locked into a device commonly used upon Stormsingers, a mask that contained the jaw and covered half her face.
My gut twisted, and I looked away. No, not a mask. A gag. A Stormsinger’s power was her voice, and without it? She was just a battered young woman with hollowed, wrathful eyes.
I felt those eyes on me as I examined the last man. He was familiar, though it took me a moment to place him. He stood next to the door in a knee-length coat of rich plum, open to show a pistol and a cutlass. His hands were latticed with scars and he wore his sun-bleached brown hair in a short tail. He had no beard and his eyes were somewhere between grey and green, his skin the same mild brown as Fisher’s, meaning he doubtless hailed from the islets off the northern coast—descended from the conquerors who’d once swept Aeadine with worship of the Saint, and sent the local ghisting-worshiping pagans, like my own ancestors, skittering into the forests and to the southern shores.
His smile, when he spotted me, was calm. We did not know one another personally, but I supposed he had been a pirate long enough to recognize a Navy man when he saw one. Disgraced or not.
I had seen his likeness on enough bulletins to know him too.
“What are you doing in port?” I asked notorious pirate James Elijah Demery. I moved to stand next to him while Fisher took a seat at the table and greeted the other guests on our behalf. Fisher might taunt me when we were aboard ship, but in situations like this she was all professionalism and reserve.
James Demery mimicked my posture, clasping one wrist at the small of his back. His voice was low and pleasant as he intoned, “The same reason as you, I’d imagine.”
He did not look at the Stormsinger as he spoke. Instead, he glanced at the open door.
The hum at the back of my mind, the one that had haunted me on the street, coalesced into a presentient whisper. There was more to this moment, to this man, than met the eye. He was no mage, not that anyone knew, but he had been in business for decades. No pirate lived so long without gathering rumors and lore, usually from terrified victims—daring battles and escapes under mysterious circumstances, powerful connections and a cool, calculating demeanor.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, but I kept my shoulders level. As companionable as he seemed, Demery could be a very dangerous man.
“We’re waiting on one more guest,” Kaspin said, filling a glass with whiskey and passing it to his brutish companion, who drank half in a shallow, savory sip, then downed the rest.
There were more glasses set out for Demery and me at empty chairs, but neither of us took them. I eyed the pirate askance, trying to suss out what it was about him and this meeting that had so unsettled me, beyond his reputation.
Demery caught my eye again. “Not long now,” the pirate murmured. “I do hope your armsmen are nearby.”
My tongue felt suddenly dry. Armsmen? Why would I have brought armsmen? Unless Demery was expecting conflict—but conflict connected to him, the results of this meeting, or the last guest?
The whisper at the back of my mind turned to a hiss, and with it came a dreamer’s rootless certainty. The feeling was a familiar one, as common to me as anger or sadness, and it took all my strength to resist reaching into my pocket for the worn old coin.
Stuffing my wits into a façade of self-possessed impatience, I gave Demery a thin smile and asked Kaspin, “I trust we will not be waiting long?”
Kaspin shook his head and glanced at a ticking clock on the mantle. “I doubt so.”
Accepting this with a nod, I stepped forward and tapped Fisher’s shoulder. She shot me a censorious glance, but paused when she saw my expression.
She rose and we moved to the door.
“Something is not right. We need to warn Slader,” I murmured. There was no use pretending that our conversation was not conspiratorial—everyone in the room watched us, even the Stormsinger over her gag. “That man is James Elijah Demery.”
“Is he a mage?” Fisher pointedly did not look at the man. “Is he conspiring?”
I shook my head. “Not a mage—not that I have sensed. But he did imply we ought to be better armed and there is something disquieting about this last guest.”
“Then go.” Fisher nodded to the door. “Right away.”
“You ought to,” I returned. “Let me stay here.”
“I am the senior officer,” Fisher reminded me coolly.
“Of course,” I acknowledged with a nod. “But I am the Sooth.”
Fisher’s expression stilled, and for a heartbeat I thought she would overrule me. Then she nodded and said, loud enough for our eavesdroppers to ‘accidentally’ hear, “Fine, how much more?”
Relief trickled down my spine. She had been convinced, and had the wit to cover our tracks. Fisher did have her moments.
“As much as the captain will give us,” I answered with equal faux subtlety.
Fisher looked at Kaspin and produced a polite smile. “Pardon me for a few moments,” she said, bowed and left the room.
Kaspin looked pleased. He exchanged a highbrowed look with his muscled companion and raised his glass to us. “To a lively auction,” he said.
Five minutes crawled past. Demery sat in a chair and lit a pipe, tilting his head back to watch the smoke rise as he made conversation with Kaspin and the wiry man, called Randalf, about mundane port business.