Argaol chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘Is it wise to use the word “heathen” in reference to someone who can spit icicles into your face?’

‘Perhaps your faith extends only as far as your fears,’ she replied coldly. ‘The Knights-Serrant cannot afford such luxuries of sloth. Our sins do not allow it.’

Your sins apparently don’t allow anything less than a gods-damned theatre production whenever you say something, either, he thought with a roll of his eyes. To hear her speak would lead anyone else to believe she was more than human. He had seen the flesh underneath her bronze, however. He had seen the red ink that was etched into her side. He knew not the language of sin, but whatever hers had been, they had been many.

That fact made the Serrant’s temperament at least somewhat understandable, even if nothing else about her was.

‘You’re not concerned?’ she asked.

He glanced down at his naked foot, the fishing line tied to his big toe as the rest of his slight, dark build sprawled out across the dock. He shrugged, folding his hands behind his bald head as he did.

‘I suppose I don’t look it, do I?’

‘His plan is to head for Port Yonder.’

‘Yonder’s fine enough,’ Argaol replied. ‘A little light on entertainment, but a bit of sobriety is good for the soul.’ He snorted, spat over the edge of the dock. ‘One would think a Lord Emissary’s duties would demand his presence here in Destiny, though.’

‘They do,’ Quillian muttered.

That caused Argaol to turn a glare upon her.

‘Aye? The Lord Emissary’s not coming?’

‘Not unless something has changed since he went to speak with that heathen.’ Quillian shook her head. ‘He means for us to act as … as aidesto the vile creature.’

‘Ah.’

‘Surely you can’t be well with that.’ The Serrant turned an incredulous glare upon the captain. ‘I was assigned by the Master-Serrants to protect the Lord Emissary, notsome … some …’

‘I wouldn’t bother finishing that thought,’ Argaol interjected curtly. ‘For someone who likes spewing them as much as you do, your repertoire of insults is surprisingly short and boring. And’ — he held up an authoritative finger — ‘as I recall, you were assigned to obeyEvenhands, which protection most certainly falls under. And I was hiredto do the same. No one’s violating any sacred oaths of red ink here.’

Her glare turned violent, face contorting with the audible grinding of teeth as she levelled a bronze finger at him.

‘Don’t you darespeak of oaths like you know any beyond your own to coin, you chicken-legged, cowardly, purse-fornicating, wheel-raping, hairless eater of broken meats!’

‘Uh … all right.’ Argaol rose up, scratched the back of his head. ‘ Thatone I haven’t heard before, I’ll grant you.’ Rather than anger, it was with a furrow-browed curiosity that he cast his gaze at the Serrant. ‘So … what’s reallyon your mind?’

The Serrant turned her bronze shoulder to him. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘To you, doorknobs are complicated.’

‘Why would you be interested?’

‘Perverse fascination is not interest.’

She stared at him for a moment, expression teetering between appalled and murderous. Like two panes of glass grinding against each other, her face cracked in short order and revealed a look that Argaol had not yet seen on her normally stolid, firm-browed face.

Fear.

‘I worry,’ she said, ‘about the adventurers.’

Argaol blinked. ‘Do they owe you money?’

Her face screwed up. ‘Ah, no.’

‘So …’

‘Well, just one of them, really.’

‘Which one?’

Quillian stared into the waters lapping at the dock. ‘I shouldn’t say.’

‘Asper, then.’

‘What?’ Her head snapped back up with a look of alarm on her face.

‘Don’t look so damned shocked,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘You think you’re the first woman to worry after another woman? It was either her or the shict.’ He furrowed his brow. ‘It’s not the shict, is it?’

‘ No.’

‘Didn’t think so,’ he replied. ‘That would have been far, far too interesting to hope for.’ He lay back down upon the dock, folding his arms behind his head. ‘Makes sense, though; the priestess is the only decent one amongst them.’

‘Then you share my concern.’

‘Not especially, no. Sebast is due to meet with them any day now. From then, he brings them back to us, they collect their pay and you get to be content that a woman who thinks you’re a fanatical lunatic is safe.’

‘But she’s …’ Quillian paused, looking a little more alarmed. ‘Wait, did she tell you she thinks I’m a fanatical lunatic?’

‘I’m assuming she thinks it. It’s sort of your thing.’

‘My thingis atonement through service to the clergy,’ the Serrant snapped. ‘If I am zealous in this pursuit, it’s only because I’m truly repentant, truly devoted.’

‘Well, wait for her to come back and you can show her your thing yourself. The trip from Teji to Destiny takes only a week or so.’

‘So you say,’ Quillian said, folding her arms. ‘But Teji is part of the Reaching Isles.’

‘Aye.’

‘They’re not called that because they’re convenient. They’ve been lawless and beyond the grasp of Toha’s navy for ages.’

‘What military force can’t solve, gold can. Teji’s a trading outpost. It’s always been a trading outpost. It’ll always be a trading outpost. No pirate is going to attack it if they can save themselves the energy by trading.’

‘Given that we only barely held off Rashodd when you swore you could deal with him and his brigands, I trust you’ll see why I’m not confident in your opinion on pirate thought processes.’ She frowned, staring out to the distant horizon. ‘Have you heard any news, then? From either Teji or Sebast?’

‘None,’ Argaol said. ‘But he’ll get the job done.’

‘If he was going to,’ Quillian muttered, ‘why would the Lord Emissary send a heathen after him?’

‘Ask him,’ Argaol muttered, closing his eyes as he dangled his leg back over the edge. ‘Confess your sinful thoughts about the priestess while you’re at it. I’m not interested anymore.’

The next part was fairly routine: the moment of frustrated silence, the flurry of grunts as she sought to come up with a retort and, finding none, the rattle of metal as she reached for her sword. He didn’t bother to open his eyes, even when he heard the steel slide back into its sheath and the heavy, burdened slam of her feet as she skulked down the dock.

He had just begun to get settled, ready to entice a curious fish with the dark flesh of his big toe, when the footsteps began to get louder.

‘I told you,’ Argaol said with a sigh, ‘I’m not-’

‘You are Argaol.’

The voice was deep, resonant, full of presumed authority. He cracked one lid open.

The other shot up like a crossbow bolt.

There was no doubting the man for a wizard: the long coat with many pockets and heavy book hanging from his belt left no room for doubt. But the size of the man, his broad shoulders and healthy frame, contradicted any impression he had ever had of the faithless magic-users. Whereas the other wizards he had known were thin and sickly, the tan vigour of this one, a Djaalman, he thought, suggested at least normal vitality.

Then again, he reminded himself, you’ve only known the one.

Apparently unwilling to wait for a reply, the man turned his head, atop which sat a rather impressive-looking hat, to the massive three-masted ship not far away. He squinted a pair of blue eyes at the bold black lettering on its hull.

‘That is the Riptide,’ he said.

‘You can read,’ Argaol replied, his shock fading and general contempt seeping back in. ‘I’m thrilled for you, really. Run along home and tell your mother.’

‘The priest told me to seek you out. We are to leave for Port Yonder at once.’

‘So I hear,’ Argaol muttered, easing back. He made a gesture in the general direction of the city. ‘The crew’s out on leave. They’ll be back tomorrow morning.’