Jael wished she didn’t, started off toward the house, toward the stable.
Her father’s voice grew urgent. “Please, forgive me. Listen, I’m not a proud man. I’ve done a lot of unforgivable things. Things that I can’t undo. I think about them, and I ask God how I could deserve you for a daughter.” He held out the bundle and unfurled the cloth—a crimson surcoat emblazoned in white with the snarling face of a lion, and inside, a sword and scabbard the same shape as those of the Temple Guard. He drew the steel for her to see: frost-bright, broad, and fullered, with an inscription etched into the base of the blade. Forged Against the Tides of Winter, one side read. The other, God Save Ye. “I pray, and then I remember the final words of the last man to die by my hands. He told me that my seed would be one to repent for my sins, and for the sins of the world.”
Jael looked from the sword to her father. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I was too ashamed to tell you before. I believe that man I murdered was an angel, and I killed him under the excuse that it was war. And that’s how I know I don’t deserve you, Jael, just like I didn’t deserve to wear these.” He returned the sword to its scabbard and pressed his parting gifts into his daughter’s hands. “But God help me,” he said, cheeks red and teary, “you will.”
Fifth Verse
Eight days had passed since they boarded their warships, and against the foul winds, Ba’al surmised they might be on the water another month or more. It pained him to think of thirty days of boredom, quaffing awful rum, and waiting for his hired captain to finally make a move. Frapugna was a ponderous game by nature, a tedious one at sea, and the “privateer” further bogged the game with his incessant distractions. Every wave that struck the side of Mercy, every siren blast from Innocence, Glory or Virtue befuddled the old smuggler. He would ask whose turn it was or what Ba’al had last moved. The bishop would spin some lie, each less believable than the last, hoping his opponent would catch on. He never did.
A heavy spray crashed over the side of the ship. The smuggler glanced away, and Ba’al shifted a knight two hexes across the board. “Is it my turn yet? Oi, Venicci!”
The smuggler rubbed his rummy nose and dug into his scraggly chin, scooping dead skin with yellow fingernails. Strewing it through his beard, he said, “Hold your water, you itchy cunt! I swear, you’re worse than a Mephistine whore.” He stooped and leveled his face with the board, squinted through his few remaining pieces. “What are you rushing me for anyhow? We still haven’t talked business.” Venicci licked his wormy lips. “I been hearing rumors. You got some good ones this time.”
Ba’al twiddled a lock of oily hair. “They’re more than you can afford, Captain. You should be thankful enough for the transport fee. You don’t know how tricky it was to commandeer a carrack.”
“Queer luck!”
“Like Hell was it luck! I had to—”
“No, you cootch! I meant the game! You left yourself open.”
The bishop sighed, his eyes crawling the walls and ceiling before returning to the board. A sudden loathing rose in him. The knight he had so hastily advanced had been guarding his saint, and now there was nothing to stop the smuggler from putting him in peril. His veins inflamed—every muscle aching to throttle Venicci as he slid his cardinal across the blue and red hexes. He couldn’t believe he made such a stupid mistake. Then another wave smashed into Mercy. The ship rocked hard, and inside the cabin, star charts, ink pots, empty mugs, and frapugna pawns tumbled from their table and shelves. Venicci, too, went down chasing after them, cursing a storm as he scoured the floor for the painted ivory pieces.
Ba’al nearly keeled over laughing. It would have been the first game in a dozen that the smuggler could have won, and Venicci made sure the bishop knew it. “God damn those drunken whore’s sons! I would of had you this time! Where’s my saint? I swear, if I have to get a new one, I’ll have that helmsman hanged!”
“Ha! I’d like to see that!”
The smuggler tried to stand but slipped and cursed again. “Dammit! What, you think I wouldn’t?”
“I don’t think the men would turn on their own. Not for you, anyway.”
Venicci glared, his jaundiced lids twitching. “On my ship, we cut the lips off mutinous braggarts.”
“Was that a jest? You’ve got to work on your timing. Or did you forget that we’re not on your ship.” The bishop rose from his squat, cushioned stool, and when the smuggler made to join him, the cabin rocked again, and Venicci clung to the table to keep from falling.
“That’s right, it’s your sodding cog! This shit ship ain’t good enough for the horses.”
“Come now, I think she deserves a little more respect. Mercy’s the oldest in the holy fleet.”
“Respect?” Venicci roared. “What does a clergyman know about respect?”
A knock came from the door, then a voice, “Your Grace.”
“Trey,” Ba’al answered, “Come in! You couldn’t have chosen a better time.”
Sir Trey Gildmane hurried inside before the spray could follow, though it did him little good. His boots and stockings were already soaked through, as were his matching black breeches and embroidered doublet, so too his blonde ponytail—loose hairs clinging around his cheeks, just as Ba’al remembered them from the day of Saint Paul’s anointment.
Ba’al cleared his throat. “You have something to report?”
“Virtue sent a message this morning. More foreign ships spotted to the south and east. And the men aboard Glory are getting restless. One was caught stealing food. They want to
