“Go ahead and laugh.” She refilled her drink, noticing that her arm was a little unsteady. The brown liquid splashed up the side of the glass and a droplet hit the table. “I said ‘brief.’ He’s not ugly. Seemed worth a romp until I got to know him.”
Dug’s eyes came back into focus when the bottle was moved. Talis poured some into his empty glass, whether he wanted it or not. After a moment he took the glass and swallowed its entire contents in one smooth motion. He set the cup back down, placing it right in an old stain that some past moisture had left in the table’s surface. His eyes were darker than ever in the low light.
Talis continued, “Funny, Tisker, that you should bring up Fens Yarrow earlier. As it happened, Hankirk thought he’d dazzle me by saying he was the man’s great-great-great-grandson, or some such. That he was entitled to a comfortable life among worthy peers because of his lineage.”
Tisker scoffed, a loud half-snort. Paternity was a vaporous concept for Cutters. Colony airships traded passengers at such a rate that it was far easier to keep track of maternal lines. Cutter folk were far from being matriarchal, as the Bone tribes were, but in determining heritage, one could only say for certain which woman birthed them.
Sophie shot him a look. “But Fens Yarrow? Why would he claim something like that?”
She was raised on the same lessons as most colonials. Don’t be like Fens Yarrow. If you’re naughty, Onaya Bone will fry you, too. The actual parable went into more detail, which was far more gruesome. It was effective at keeping Cutter folk, both children and adults, in line. Only maybe Hankirk hadn’t been told the same stories as a babe.
“Imagine it, Soph. If there’s a portion of society—high society—that values Yarrow’s flavor of ambition? They might consider his progeny to be heir to that legacy.” Talis finished her drink while that sank in.
Her mind drifted through the memories, and she had to force herself back to the present. “Anyway I didn’t believe him, of course.” Talis set her empty cup on the table, watching Dug’s expression. “I didn’t learn the Veritors’ actual name until years later. Never connected the two until just now.”
Tisker nodded his chin at the ring between them. “So we sell the ring to the Veritors?”
“Well that would be tricky, don’t you think?” Sophie finished her drink and put the glass down. “Hankirk’s already proven that they don’t expect to part with coin for the thing.”
Dug twitched, like a sleeping man having nightmares. Talis refilled his cup, and the bottle clinked against the rim of his glass.
“Sell the ring to anyone but,” she said. She chafed that the conversation had circled back to the crew’s pessimism about the bloody ring, and she still didn’t know what to make of the Veritors’ interest in it. “There will be other buyers. I’ve got a list of folks who like to dabble in alchemy, if that’s what this thing is. Couple of them might even be able to afford it.”
Sophie pulled her hands off the table with a sharp gasp, as though the ring could burn her across the wooden surface. She glanced out at the clear skies beyond the portholes and gave a tug on the set of short prayerlocks at the nape of her neck. Almost immediately, she caught herself, and lowered her hands sheepishly to the table. “Secret cults and alchemy? Hells, Captain, what did you get us tangled up in?”
The Divine Alchemists had torn Peridot apart with their elemental manipulation. When they created new peoples to populate the planet’s scattered islands, they enforced one rule above all others: Don’t mess around with alchemy.
Of course not everyone listened. Even Wind Sabre had a few illegal trinkets and devices in her lockers. Sometimes the benefits were worth the risk, for a particularly clever widget, and Onaya Bone didn’t always appear to destroy transgressors with her swift punishment, as warned in the tales of Fens Yarrow.
Hells, Talis knew that Arthel Rak, Lord of Fire and Creator of the Rakkar, even encouraged his people to dabble in it. Or at least he rewarded the most notable accomplishments with a personal congratulatory visit.
Maybe they could find a Rakkar buyer. Then at least she wouldn’t have to worry that she’d sold the ring to the same people who’d funded Hankirk’s shiny new ship. Any buyer except a Cutter would do, really.
But she put a clumsy hand out to calm Sophie. “Could also just be some historical treasure. If it’s pre-Cataclysm, maybe some Vein researcher wants to put it in a museum with the rest of their old ’tronics.”
The word ‘cataclysm’ was challenging for her rum-soaked tongue. This conversation needed to end. Soon.
Sophie’s eyes widened. Between the parables, eight siblings, overprotective aunts, and her youth, she hadn’t seen as much of the world as the rest of the crew. Dug and Jasper were probably the only non-Cutters Sophie knew by name. She looked far less worried now. Eager was a better term.
“So we’re going to Subrosa,” said Dug, surprising Talis by speaking. The visions that had clouded his eyes moments before had cleared and his expression was focused. “Despite the fact that Hankirk placed the contract with Jasper there.”
“What?” Talis picked up the ring and returned it to its pouch. “Aren’t you curious to hear that big bastard explain why he sold us out?”
Dug’s grin, as he raised his glass to her in a toast, was frightening.
Chapter 8
After dinner, Tisker shooed Dug and Sophie away from the great cabin, offering to clear the table himself. Talis could see that he had something on his mind, though he started to gather up the dishes without a word, loading them onto their trays. He was waiting to be sure the others were out of earshot. She thought about ordering him to return to the wheelhouse so she could
