“she’s probably lying dead in a dungeon by now-I tell you, she’s gone too far this time. She thinks she can treat this like one of her fool escapades, but these are powerful people! Rich nobles, whoever they are-they’ll crush her!”
Steifann groaned and reached for the pitcher on the table before him. It was nearly empty.
“No more of that,” the cook said sternly, snatching it away. “You’re drunk enough already.” He turned back to the great mass of dough, kneading it rhythmically. The kitchen was already fragrant with the smell of baking loaves,
“Corson knows what she’s about. You fret over her every time like a broody hen and she always comes back whole and hearty.”
“This is different, I tell you-”
“You always say that. I’ve no time for your babbling. And you should be on your way to market by now-it’s almost light. The best’ll be picked over before you get yourself there. If you come back with flyblown meat and rotten cabbage you’ll cook it yourself!”
Steifann got to his feet with a grant. “You’ll see,” he said thickly, “I’ve more to think of than cabbages!”
“That’s right,” said the cook, pushing him out the door, “onions. I want a bushelful, Don’t forget.”
In the courtyard, children of all ages were feeding the hens, gathering eggs, drawing water, and loading their arms with firewood for the kitchen hearth-all in the noisiest possible manner. They were mostly the offspring of the cook and his wife, who lived across the court, but they spent most of the day about the tavern, doing kitchen chores and running errands. Seeing Steifann harnessing the cart-horse, two of the smallest stopped throwing corn at each other and ran up to him shrieking demands to be taken along to market.
Steifann, who was feeling the effects of a sleepless night and too much ale, winced at their clamor and shooed them away. “Not today,” he said absently, pushing the hair back from his face and frowning at nothing. “I shouldn’t have let her go,” he thought for the hundredth time. But he knew full well that the cook had spoken the truth.
When Corson heard the ladder creak under a heavy tread, she got silently to her feet and drew her sword, watching the door anxiously. She would be at a disadvantage in such close quarters, where she could barely stand upright.
Surely it was only one of the crew…
“Corson, are you in there?” Steifann pushed open the cabin door, laughing at her surprise. “Must you always greet me with that sword in your hand? It’s not manners. If I’m not welcome, I’ll take myself off.”
Corson’s eager embrace left no doubt as to his welcome., “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
“Oh, I just thought I’d come see you off… not that I was really worried, I knew you’d be all right.”
“You’re drunk!” laughed Corson. “You must have been up all night fretting, and there was nothing to it-it was a lark.”
Steifann peered over her shoulder with bloodshot eyes. “Who’s that?” he demanded. “Hlann Asye, Corson, you’ve only just come on board and you’re already in bed with the cabin boy!” He crossed to the berth in two strides and glared down at the sleeping Nyctasia. “Oh
…” he said uneasily, turning away. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” He stooped to avoid a low beam and leaned back against the wall, fumbling in his pouch. “You must need some money, Corson.”
She pulled his hand away and pressed it to her cheek. “No, she paid our passage,” she said, nodding towards Nyctasia. “That one has no end of money.”
She nestled against him and murmured, “but you don’t want to hear about her.”
Steifann reached his arm around her waist and drew her close.
“You’ve not changed, I see, Steifann. Stinking drunk and still hot as a buck in nit!” Destiver leaned in the doorway, one hand on her hip. “But you’d best get yourself ashore unless you plan to sail with us. The tide won’t wait for you, lover.”
Steifann stifled a yawn. “Well, if it isn’t Black Destiver, the terror of the coast,” he remarked amiably. “No thanks, Destiver. I’ve sailed with you before, and that was enough to sake a landsman of me forever.”
Corson was looking from one to the other with a frown. Steifann gave her a parting squeeze and she kissed him quickly.
Destiver stepped aside to let him through the doorway and slapped him on the backside as he passed her. “You were no rutting good as a sailor, that’s what made a landsman of you.”
“Corson, write and let me know where you are,” he called over his shoulder, and disappeared up the hatchway with Destiver at his heels.
“I’ll see you when I’m back in port,” Corson heard her remark.
Corson spat after them and slammed the door shut. She felt the ship lurch and move out with the tide. Harboring bloody thoughts, she settled herself to sleep.
Steifann was late getting to market, but nothing could dispel his good humor that morning. He listened with considerable interest to the tales making the rounds of the marketplace. The talk was all of a monstrous demon that had murdered a nobleman and half his guard at the Smugglers’ House the night before.
“Just vanished into the air, it did,” gossiped a cheesemonger. “They say it’s the Witch of Rhostshyl’s doing.”
Steifann nodded sagely. “It sounds like witchery to me,” he agreed. He purchased a packet of gingerbread for the cook’s children and loaded his provisions into the cart. He forgot the onions.