Some places earned their names by dint of nature—they had black sands, perhaps, red silt, green tides—but the Blood Coast was not one of them. No, when the powers carved up Arnes and Faro and Vesk centuries before, there was a seam, a single juncture where all three empires met. No one could agree on the exact boundary, and so, after decades of discontent, of sabotage and sunken ships, the stretch had earned its moniker.
And they were bound for the capital, the infamous port of Verose.
Lila scanned the horizon, waiting for the jagged line of the city’s pale cliffs to take shape on the horizon. The Arnesian guard had done their best to clean up Verose decades before, to drive out the worst of the violence and impose a kind of order—the old king, Rhy’s father, Maxim Maresh, had even served a stint as captain of its base. But Verose had proved a lawless place, by nature or by choice.
And Lila loved it.
It was the kind of place where blood spilled often, every gathering was always one drawn blade away from a brawl, and—
A bottle shattered somewhere behind her on the deck, followed by a raucous cheer. Lila sighed, and turned toward her crew. Tav and Vasry were jostling, while the usually stern-faced Stross barked in laughter, all three faces red. The only one missing was Vasry’s wife, Raya. Lila craned her head and scanned the rigging until she found the woman, black-haired and pale as marble, perched on the masthead. The sun was high, and hot, but the woman didn’t seem to mind. Her gaze dropped to Lila, her eyes the same icy blue as the glacier she’d come from.
“Didn’t think I could do it, did you?” Vasry was whooping in Arnesian, and it was clear from the volume of his voice and the way he swayed that he had emptied the bottle before breaking it. “But I’ve been practicing.”
Lila looked down at the shards of glass littering her deck. “Practicing what, exactly?” she asked.
Tav made a small explosive gesture with both hands, and mouthed the word boom. Lila raised a brow. Vasry was a wind mage by nature, though he had never been a very good one. As far as she could tell, he’d gotten far more use out of his looks than his magic. His hair was a tawny gold, his eyes fringed thick with lashes, and, obnoxiously, he seemed to be getting more handsome with age instead of less, which came in handy when someone needed charming, less so when their ship could use a strong gust.
“Here, here,” he said, handing Stross another bottle. “Give this one some air.”
“That better be empty,” said Lila the second before her first mate hurled the bottle up over the side of the ship. Vasry’s hand shot out, eyes narrowed and lips moving. Clearly he meant to hit the glass with some concussive force, but he missed, and the bottle simply arced, and fell, untouched, landing with a quiet plop in the surf below.
“Oops,” he said, and after a moment of silence, all three men broke out laughing again. Vasry hiccupped. Lila shook her head.
“I think you’ve all had enough.”
Tav spread his arms. “But Captain,” he said, with mock sincerity, “this is meant to be a pleasure vessel.”
“Charted for a lark,” added Vasry.
“That’s right,” grumbled Stross, suddenly defensive. “We’re just being thorough.”
In that moment, she regretted letting them pick the Barron’s cover for this particular mission, even as she took up the last of the bottles waiting on the crate. She went to take a swig, only to find it empty.
Lila gritted her teeth. “Tell me there’s still liquor somewhere on this ship.”
The three men had the decency to look at least a little guilty. “Should still be some in the hold.”
She sighed, then turned and tossed the empty bottle up into the air.
Instead of splaying her hand, she closed it, not into a fist but a pistol. Thumb up, finger pointed. She followed the bottle’s arc with her finger, and squeezed the imaginary trigger.
The bottle shattered with a bang. The crew whooped and cheered, and the captain stifled a small smile as she strode away, the sounds following her down into the hold.
II
Lila hummed as she moved between the crates, her voice echoing faintly against the hull.
The Grey Barron’s hold was home to many things. There were stores, of course, enough supplies that they could stay at sea for weeks without calling into port. But there was also plenty to trade, or keep—bolts of fine cloth and scrying stones; Veskan masks and Faroan mantles; books of poetry, histories, and spells; and of course, a fair number of weapons stashed among the crates, since her burgeoning collection had long overflowed her private quarters. Everyone deserved a hobby, and just because Lila sailed for the crown didn’t mean she couldn’t serve herself.