THE HISSING MINK

Author Note:
Part of this chapter overlaps with Whispers of Ghosts Chapter 41, Impassable Waters. Having read that chapter recently will provide some entertaining insights.

 “Fifty-thousand quils for the foreigner’s head plus the same for his swords. That’s what I’m hearin’.” Captain Sondorelê had just returned through the Monsoon Strait and skipped banter of profits for the first time in ages.

Despite the clamor of sailors, gulls, and waves, the tally of gold rang clear in Polênu’s ear, and she leaned on the rail of the Silver Willow. “What did the man do to earn such a sum on his pate?”

Sondorelê sat on a cask and spat over the rail. “Bonefish claims of piracy and kidnapping, but I was on Toltûk when this man insulted Lord Captain Ushtrûôk to his face. They were damned near to blows.”

“You think their dispute is personal?”

“Aye. If it weren’t right off, it was after plunking a pit off the lord’s chest.”

 “A what?”

“This foreigner threw an apricot pit, contessa. It was a thank you for Ushtrûôk’s kind visit. Rumor on the island said the barbarian was sailing for Mostul Ûbar or the Ôlfindarâs.”

"And instead, he docks here. In Nodoru.” She cocked her head and sniffed the salt air. “He wanted the Boboru mad. His head's either rotten potatoes or... I'm not sure what."

“It is said he sailed from Mulshahar with the blessing of the Smiling Men.“

“The Smiling Men?” She’d never sailed so far west, but stories of the great city and its mysterious rulers always attracted her whimsy. “Sorry. Please continue.” 

“Aye, after escaping an island of demons far to the north. They also say the great Kî destroyed a Histê temple to protect this man.”

A breath escaped, and she relaxed with a chuckle. "Good captain, you're straying into drunken chatter."

“No, lovely. I can’t speak to the Kî, but the pyramid is gone by word of many crews.”

She waved him off. “It matters not. You’re certain he’s here?”

“My eyes were on them from the flicker their sails waved on the horizon. First longship tied off on the westernmost docks a candle back. A fish gutter by the name of Benelê sought out Galortêu straight away for somethin’ or another.”

Her chest tensed. “I’d prefer the Boboru drive tears into Galortêu. What, then, do you think this Benelê plans?”

“Same as you, lovely. If you want the bounty on this head, you’ll need to beat Galortêu to it.”

She huffed. “You presume to know what I want? I prefer Boborun gold stained with Boborun blood, not some foreigner’s.”

“Aye, but you don’t want Galortêu’s pouch flush with their quils, neither. That shark-loving bastard won’t forgive you until you’re both in the grave.”

She eyed the man. He was right. “I should’ve killed him when I had a chance.”

“It was a wise choice then; it’s a wiser choice now.”

It wasn’t a debate she wanted to rehash with him or Âvorê. “Then we take a foreigner’s head for quils.”

“The favor it’ll buy with the Boboru could open gates we’ve found locked.”

She paced with a dozen eyes watching her, Âvorê’s the most intense. His silence surprised her.  “We’ll need to raise sails fast when we take this foreigner. I want Shemêu on our side if Galortêu takes this personal like. Five thousand quils should see to her knives. Sober the crews, be ready for wind or blood.”

“Aye, lovely. Word will pass from mine own lips.”

She stopped her march and spun on him. “Odds on, this Benelê stood to arrange a meeting. I want your eyes on this foreigner andGalortêu.”

He smirked. “Galortêu’s crew has been slipping down to the Hissing Mink.”

There wasn’t a tavern in Nodoru that wasn’t a rowdy sty a man could die in without a soul taking note, but the Mink’s proprietor was more friendly to Boborun interests. “I want five or six sailors from each of our ships heading there in waves. Make certain they know they’re there for a fight, not a hangover.”

“It’ll be done.” The captain stood and tipped his hat before striding for the gangplank.

Polênu turned to Âvorê, his placid face hard. “Feel free to share your thoughts now, lest you can’t bark of how you warned me before things go bloody.”

He cleared his throat. “It’s a dangerous play—”

“Galortêu hasn’t more than two ships these days, and his crews are poorly paid to die.”

“He’s got two ships because you burned the others. He still has dangerous friends, montêsu.”

“His friends fear me more than they love him.” She sighed and strode to Âvorê, rested her hands on stolid shoulders. "You are my greatest friend and ally. Our sails are empty of air, and we're stagnant, getting nowhere."

“Better to rest easy on the deck than dangle from the spar.”

“I’ll give it up now if you can tell me where the Crying Man harvests his Honêsh.” Âvorê grunted as he looked up at her, his lips twisting without a word, and she knew she’d won. “I’ll need a plain dress to blend in at the Mink. If I arrive before Galortêu, I should be able to disappear in a corner.”

His muscles bunched beneath her fingers. “Then I will go with you.”

She dropped her hands and strode for the cabin with a smile. “No, my friend, you stand out more than I do. With a face so sour, disguise will never be your strength.”

***

Smoke from the Mink's hearth mingled with the haze from dozens of cigars and pipes as flames boiled the evening stew. It was a nose-burning boon, covering the stench of fish guts as well as men who'd been at sea for months while lending cover from wandering eyes that might otherwise linger. Poleen leaned on the bar chewing a cigar, and kept her eyes low while sipping an ale, her eyes locked on the front door.

She puffed and clouded her vision from beneath the broad brim of her hat with smoke. Crew from her ships surrounded her, even if scattered and drinking, but the moment Galortêu walked through the door she wished Âvorê or Sandorelê were here, all the more after the flickering flutter of fear seized into an urge to gut him. Teeth and fists clenched, and she ducked her head, staring into warm foam atop her tankard of ale. 

A deep breath later, she raised her eyes, her focus wandering from face to face, but she didn't lose sight of her enemy until he slunk into a chair beside a table across the room. Sailors crowded the Hissing Mink as they did every tavern in Nodoru during the trading season, a riot of thirsty folk apt to kill each other on the open waves but more than content to get so drunk they’d lean on one or another to keep from falling down. She never begrudged a soul their habits ashore, but tonight she wished they’d part or sit down to assure a view of her foe.

Rimit’s elbow bumped her shoulder. “Aye, I saw him. Get closer. He makes a move this way, I want to see you before him.”

“Done.” The man darted into the crowd, his scrawny frame edging through the tight spaces between drunks where others would face delays or squabbles. For a flicker, she wondered if Rimit might be able to stick a knife in Galortêu and be gone before a soul knew who done it, and she smiled. But she wanted the blood on her hands. She’d burned most of his ships, but she still owed herself his death for what he’d done to her.

She puffed her cigar and sipped her ale, refocusing her attention on the front door. Hinges rocked to a big man's kick, and a sailor in feathered cap stepped through, raising his arms with a whale call that turned into a howling bellow for ale. Laughter, jeers, and greetings of "Dunorn!” thundered in the Mink’s hall, drowning out flutes and fiddles. He was a captain and merchant, smuggler, or pirate, depending on who you asked and what day it was, but of no concern to Poleen.

A sailor tromped to the newcomer, and neither a fist nor hug would've surprised, but instead, they butted heads hard enough to make her cringe. She gripped her seat and pulled herself tight to the table as wenches with full mugs scattered from the main floor. Dunorn had the other hefted by the count of three, and a flicker later, the man soared. Men stumbled, and drinks crashed; punches and kicks flew; four men dropped in a clump like angry crabs strapped together; those not caught in the fray side-stepped and sauntered from range.

It was a friendly fight, so similar to dozens she’d witnessed before that once she knew her ale and seat secure, her eyes returned to the entrance. What does a man marked by a fifty-thousand quil bounty look like? She understood him to be tall and pale, but it was his toting two swords with ikoruv hilts that would set him apart. What kind of fool would be so audacious with that price on his head? A wise man would leave them behind or cover them.

The next man who stepped through the door was tall and blond, pale even through the smokey haze; her face went slack-jawed at seeing the barbarian, and not because he was too much the fool to conceal the swords on his back. Her heart forgot to beat, or her perception of time twisted to make it seem such. In the midst of battle, time often slowed, or her thoughts sped—she never could decide which—offering the voice within time for consideration of her actions and reactions, but in this prolonged instant, her mind was silent after a single word: Him.

Poleen stared, for an infinite moment lost and alone in a crowded world all too familiar. She took in his every motion amid the blur of a brawl coming to a close. Her breast rose and fell as folks resituated chairs and tables, and servers scurried to refill dumped tankards. Silence in her ears until her heart thundered once and slow in her chest when his eyes met hers. Time shifted, and she found herself on her feet. Walking. Oblivious. Eyes locked. And without cause, he met her in the middle. Hands slipped under hers, warm and strong in her grip. Blue eyes with dark rings.

Who the hell are you? She would’ve sworn her lips moved, but they didn’t.

He answered despite her lack of asking. “Solineus Mikjehemlut.”

Poleen Juvukis. “Polênu Juvilêus.” How close she’d come to saying her real name startled her back to reality. Her eyes flicked over the crowd. Galortêu and his men wouldn’t have missed her mindless blunder, and she noted Rimit scowling from strides away.

“I know you.” 

You can’t, came her silent answer, then she marveled. She understood his words without a clue as to how or why. She didn’t even have a name for the language he spoke. She licked her lips and wrestled her tongue against her teeth and the roof of her mouth to make unfamiliar combinations of sound. “What language are you speaking?”

 “Edan, you speak it too.”

“I don’t speak Edan.” She laughed at her foolishness. Her mother had known several languages; had she forgotten childhood lessons in the language of the woodkin? “How do I speak Edan?”

A barbarian with features enough like Solineus’ to be kin grabbed his shoulder and spoke with a garble of syllables.

Solineus didn’t let go of her hands, and she squeezed his as he spoke.  “I... I have to go. I’ll be back.”

She grinned, thinking it might be best if he never returned. “You better.” 

He let go of her hands and followed the other man, without doubt heading straight for Galortêu.

She turned and stared at the floor, muttering to herself: “Saints above, you aren’t here for him.” Except she was, but not in the way her sweaty palms bespoke. She was here to turn him over to the Boboru for a bounty every man here would kill for, if not for their hatred of those who’d pay it. Cinch your head tight, Poleen, or your wits will gallop right from beneath you. He doesn’t know you. You don’t know him. What dark magic could conjure such a thing?

“What the Saints were you thinkin’?” Rimit gazed up at her.

She leaned on her own rudder to straighten her thoughts. Deep breaths amid a whirl of thoughts and a single conclusion. “Galortêu won’t make a move here. Not now.”

"You had your chance. We coulda taken the barbarian right damned there."

Her gaze hardened. “No, I couldn’t. He’s dangerous.” She knew it true without an explanation for why, and it brought a flutter to her chest.

“You sayin’ he’s dangerous gives me the jitters.”

Rimit had said more than a few times that she frightened him more than any man he’d met. She stepped behind him, gazing over his shoulder at Galortêu’s table, watching the barbarian sit and strike up words. “Our plans have changed. We’ll use this barbarian for gain far outstripping some Boborun reward.” She slunk into the boisterous crowd, headed for Galortêu and leaving Rimit talking to himself. This barbarian could be the key to unlock the Crying Man's mouth. The notion struck in a heart-fluttering flicker, even if she could finger how she’d manage the trick. A foreigner seeking donu-honêsh. One wanted by the Boboru. Infamous. Unmotivated by local politics. Him. Her inner eye recognized opportunity before her consciousness could.

She moved within paces of the table, back to back with a sailor tapping his foot to the tavern’s music. Close enough to overhear Galortêu’s words. Close enough that the sound of his voice brought iron to her blood. 

“Mouth of the Mâbuhon. That there’s a problem. That there river sits west of the Emulên Isles, which are held by Izdelê Kôlechâ and her allied cities.”

The Mâbuhon, a river leading into the wilds of the Woodkin. Most folks feared its masters and sailed clear.

But not this barbarian, it seemed. “What’s the trouble?”

The man laughed before chugging from his mug. “You aren’t from around these parts. The Boboru Armada has blockaded the islands for the past two years, and they patrol the region. Nobody gets past."

Her heart sped, and she spun around the sailor she hid behind. Nobody saw her, not Galortêu’s men. Not Solineus. Slow, precise steps, head dipped beneath the brim of her hat.

The barbarian shrugged and spoke. “If nobody can get us through, we won’t be needing your help.”

You need mine. I need yours. Blood pulsed through every muscle, the strength and speed she required for the coming kill surged. Her eyes widened, unblinking, and a lion's roar echoed in her mind.

Galortêu pounded his chest with pride in his voice. “Captain Galortêu will see you to the mouth of the Mâbuhon! I will—”

Poleen snatched his head, and with a lift and twist, his skull spun until his dying eyes stared between her breasts. A place he'd so often wanted to find himself.

She let go, and the dying man hit the floor in the same instant she locked gazes with the blue-eyed barbarian. Polêen smiled with a wink, her rapier whispering from its sheath, its tip pointing straight at Galortêu’s man.

Solineus leaped from his stool, and she stood impressed that he recognized in an instant that he wasn’t her target. “Damn it, woman, you just killed the man I’m trying to hire.”

Quick of wit, but naïve. “He would have sold you to the Boboru.” Qwimôn, Galortêu’s second captain, twitched for his sword, and she pricked his shoulder with a jab straight into the joint and tendons, and she gave it a twist. "Sit down. Sit." The man clutched his shoulder and slumped into his seat with a furious gaze.

Rimit and several of her men charged the table with hands on swords and axes, and Galortêu’s other men relaxed their poses, a couple with palms facing her. They didn't want this fight, but the barbarian's ikoruv-hilted swords were at his waist instead of his back. A neat trick. 

She faced him and offered her hand, and Solineus took it. But Rimit grabbed her shoulder and yanked on her, pulling her toward the door. “Guards coming. Guards coming!” 

Sômun took her hand, a plaintive stare. They tugged on her, but the barbarian wouldn’t let go, and neither would she.

She smiled, raising her chin with the dignity of a Contessa giving a command. "Meet me on the Silver Willow in the morning."

He released her fingers, and she didn't take her eyes off his even as Rimit led her away. She called out one last time before stepping from the Hissing Mink. “The Silver Willow!”

A fresh breeze struck her face a dozen strides into the street, and she shook free of Rimit’s grip. She might glare or strike him, but she was giddy with delight. “The son of a bitch is dead.”

“Oh, aye!” Rimit cast eyes in every direction. “Now, let’s get to yonder Willow before we join him." He trotted down the street, and the others took halting steps, but she stared at the back of his head until he realized she didn't follow. He turned. "Yer Saints be damned crazy!"

She stepped into her Contessa stride, sheathing her rapier. “I refuse to run from a great victory.”

Once aboard the Silver Willow, her greatest allies didn’t see it her way. Âvorê sat on the bench in the captain’s cabin as if crushed by a giant’s hand. “You… I… Damn.”

Poleen strutted to the captain's seat defiant despite feeling like a girl who'd disappointed her father. "I don't ask your permission for who I kill."

"No, no, you damned well don't. The Willow will be drenched in blood before the sun rises. We’ll be lucky to make it from this harbor with half a crew.”

Sandorelê stood silent, mouth puckered open but silent.

Poleen sat and kicked her feet up, admiring that she’d killed Galortêu without staining her boots. “And if we’d grabbed the northerner and Galortêu still lived? We’d be fending off barbarians and Galortêu’s crew. Maybe others who’d take his side. We’d shoving off as we speak and praying for wind!”

“Foolish.”

“You call me a fool?”

“Never.”

“Then heed my words.” Âvorê tapped his forehead and raised the back of his hand without a word; It pleased her that he was willing to listen. She inhaled until her lungs could take no more air, then spoke in steady, calm words. "By now, someone has Galortêu’s head for the reward, and how many friends does he have who will risk death for revenge? Our only threat was Shemêu, and we own her knives for a sum none will challenge. Shemêu will soothe the town guard by morning."

Sandorelê shrugged in Âvorê’s direction and his tongue loosened enough to speak. "She's a point made. The Street Queen will leave bodies and quick if anyone makes a move. No one will touch us on these docks without a war, a war the guard won't want."

Poleen raised a victorious hand. “Indeed. And by tomorrow, we will have allies in the barbarians.”

Âvorê said, “You think those northerners are worth their weight in fish heads?”

“Those men were warriors, not sailors. I wouldn’t want to cross swords with their leader, this Solineus Mikjehemlut.”

Âvorê rocked back in his seat, a stern eye on her. "I've only heard you say this of one other."

“Yes, Nicôdî tû Dêidân. And I mean my words.”

“How do you know this?”

She spoke in a rush as if hasty words would be forgotten sooner. "He's familiar. As if I should know him by another name. Don't ask me to explain."

“Don’t ask. Aye. Right.” He huffed, leaned forward with hands clutched by his knees. “Say you’re right about all this… We’re safe, for now, and we made a friend. An ally. In what?”

Poleen smiled and leaned elbows to desk. “I’m not sure how I missed the play before. We use this barbarian to bring fresh tears to the Crying Man’s face.”

Sandorelê dragged a chair to the edge of the desk to sit, and Âvorê’s brows rose over curious eyes and a grin. “My attention is yours.”

A smile crossed her face, knowing they would forgive her rash murder if she could germinate her seed of plan to their satisfaction. "The Crying Man trusts not a soul from the two gulfs, so we bring to him a man from afar, a barbarian with a need and a price on his head."