The Pirate of Fathoms Deep (17 page)

Maybe they were starting to figure out that he wasn't special enough to make a worthwhile ransom. Hopefully they'd let him go, though Shemal was fairly certain that was not what usually happened to hostages who proved useless.

One of the men abruptly turned and strode off down the long row of the old basement and up the rickety stairs that looked ready to break with every step. Shemal closed his eyes, unable to bear looking at it all, more interested in focusing on all his happy memories of Lesto, no matter how much they hurt.

He opened his eyes again when the man who'd left returned, stomping angrily and managing to crack two of the worn steps. He barked something at the others, who tensed and reached reflexively for their weapons. The leader gestured to Shemal and said something that sounded like an order, but the only familiar word he caught was
move.

Two of them crossed the room to him, one to each arm as they unchained him and got him up on his shackled feet. Then he was unceremoniously thrown over the larger man's shoulder like a sack of flour. At least they hadn't knocked him out this time. Shemal wasn't certain how much more of a beating his poor head could take. The rough treatment wasn't doing any favors for his other wounds, either, but he preferred the pain to being unconscious.

Though he wished there was a little bit more dignity involved. He considered trying to fight his way free, but he was chained hand and foot, and pirates were only ever that talented in plays. The reality was that he wasn't going anywhere unless his captors let down their guard long enough for him to slip away slowly and get somewhere he could have the manacles removed.

He was dumped over a horse when they reached the streets, the last of the light fading from the sky as they rode off, headed out of the city if the upward slope was anything to judge by. That was stupid. Why would the halfwits venture anywhere close to the Cartha Mountains? Shemal was a
pirate
, and he'd rather face an imperial fleet than deal with the crazy mother fuckers in the mountains.

It took a good day of travel to reach them from Harkenesten, but if they were only halfway there it was still far too close for comfort.

By the time they stopped, it was full dark, miserably cold, and he would give anything for food and something to lessen his pain. That was the other reason he wouldn't be making an escape any time soon—a bad ankle, some severely bruised ribs, the knot on the back of his head, and who knew what else.

Never mind that he officially had no idea where they were, only that he wouldn't be walking back to town unless he had about a week to do it.

They dragged him inside a dilapidated temple, probably abandoned when a newer, better one was built but never torn down because nobody ever thought about that cost when they made such plans. Shemal was forever grateful for the oversight; many an abandoned building had served as hideaway, home, and storage for him over the years.

The way they'd so abruptly left the empty building in the city, the way they'd so quickly left the city, spoke of a plan gone wrong. Whatever consolation Shemal might have taken from that was ruined by the presence of a
lot
of additional soldiers. There was at least a hundred of them milling around the old temple. Worse, they weren't all wearing red leather. A good too fucking many of them wore the uniform of the Hands of Death. Fuck, fuck, and
fuck.

If that many soldiers were here, even more were probably close by, likely offshore or divided between buildings, or both. If the same number had been waiting wherever Lesto was supposed to deliver Lord Bestowen… But Lesto was High Commander, he wouldn't do something like that without taking along enforcements, and Fathoms Deep was accounted an unstoppable force, never mind the imperial army.

They'd probably made the red leather brigade think they were bringing Lord Bestowen and then took all of them down. But Lesto had been at the exchange spot, obviously. Only amateur kidnappers would be that foolish, and while he wouldn't accuse the red leather brigade of shining intelligence, they weren't hopelessly stupid either.

Whatever had happened, the rest of the force was pulling back to regroup. They must be keeping Shemal for insurance; he couldn't fathom any other reason, though by now it must have been made clear to them he wasn't worth much.

But far be it for him to tell them if they hadn't already figured it out. Shemal settled without protest as they propped him against what was left of an altar and wrapped his chains around it, securing them at the back, forcing his arms to stretch out again. His shoulders were going to ache for days—assuming he survived the night, which he wasn't.

The five who'd been holding him spoke with a man who had marks of high rank on his shoulders. What rank exactly, Shemal wasn't sure, but it was obvious from the way they all behaved that he was in charge. He was short, the type who always seemed to be bouncing in place even when he was holding perfectly still. He had light skin, dark hair, and a snub nose. Whatever the others were telling him, he wasn't happy about it, and he knocked two of them across the face, sending all of them of scurrying away.

He strode over to Shemal and knelt close to him—but not close enough that Shemal could swing his legs out to kick him, not that he planned on trying. "Your people are quite stupid not to give us the Star when we demanded it."

"What are you talking about?" Shemal asked. "What star? I thought you wanted Lord Bestowen."

"Because he is the one responsible for the theft of our Star. Tell me why Harken is willing to risk war with Treya Mencee for you. What makes you so valuable?"

Shemal snorted. "Tell me why you're willing to start a war with the Harken Empire. The last country to try that was Benta, and they had twice your ability and no ocean in the way. What's so damn important you'd risk everything for it?"

"That is none of your business," the man replied. "Your only concern should be your life, and you will lose it if you do not tell me how to persuade the High Commander to give us what we want."

Laughing, Shemal leaned forward as far as he could, until he and the other man were only a hand span apart, then said in Treyan,
"Suck. My. Dick. You milk-skinned, flea-ridden shit stain."

That got him backhanded, left his mouth bleeding where his teeth cut the inside of one cheek. Shemal spit blood out as he pulled back to rest against the altar again.

The man glared at him a moment longer then rose and returned to the others.

As victories went, it wasn't much, and Shemal was definitely going to pay for it later by way of a slow death. But he was always going to die anyway, and he'd be damned to the depths before he betrayed Lesto when it mattered most. Bad enough he'd already fucked up so irrevocably.

He looked up as the man he'd spoken to suddenly got loud, just in time to see him shove several of the men away. Maybe he'd be so busy killing his own people he'd forget to kill Shemal.

Some other men got into it, and the argument quickly turned into shoving and shouting. A few more minutes and somebody was going to throw a punch, and that would be that. Looked like it was going to be Red Leather versus the Hands of Death. Shemal was going to put his non-existent money on the Hands of Death. Red Leather didn't seem tough or scary. Ten of them hadn't been able to stop Shemal and Lesto in the end.

He refused to think about how much of that had been dumb luck.

Right as the whole fight was about to turn nasty, something came through one of the temple windows—a fire arrow. It was followed immediately by several more, plunging into the temple, striking stone and men, turning everything to chaos.

Before the mercenaries could recover, the doors were thrown open and soldiers surged in, all wearing the unmistakable teal of Fathoms Deep. Shemal swallowed, throat suddenly raw. What was Fathoms Deep doing there? They shouldn't—

All his thoughts stuttered to a halt as Lesto came storming through the broken door. Instead of his usual uniform and lightweight leather armor, he wore chain mail, plate guards on his arms and legs, heavy gauntlets on his hands, and over all that was a Fathoms Deep surcoat, the skull and swords crest emblazoned in black and silver thread. With the patch over his eye, the drawn sword, the brutal way he fought as he joined the fray… Lesto looked more like a pirate than a soldier. Shemal couldn't have looked away even if he'd wanted to. Lesto was fierce and beautiful, but at the same time, he was safe and stable, so very much a port in a storm.

Three men broke away from other fights to attack him, but Lesto threw a gauntleted fist into the face of the first, countered the swinging sword of the next with his own, tripped the third one, and then finished off the second. By the time he was done with that, the first one had recovered enough to find somewhere else to be.

Lesto took down several more mercs as he fought his way across the room, fighting with all the ruthlessness of a pirate—a pirate captain, determined to plunder and keep as many of his crew alive as possible.

He was halfway down the hall when he saw Shemal and stopped in surprise—a move that nearly cost him, as two men came at him from behind. Shemal jerked reflexively at his chains. "Behind!"

Whipping around, Lesto drew a dagger from his belt, disarmed one man while kicking away the other then killing both of them, one with a sword to his gut, the other with a dagger to his throat. Retrieving the sword the second man dropped, he continued on with two blades until he at last reached the altar.

By that point, the fighting was winding down and any remaining enemies had been secured. Lesto looked cautiously around before kneeling beside Shemal. "Someone find me keys or a close approximation!" Lesto bellowed. He dropped his swords, stripped off the heavy gauntlets, and touched Shemal's face. "Are you all right?"

"What are you doing here?" Shemal asked. "Where's Bestowen?"

"What?" Lesto stared at him, hand falling. "What are you talking about? What do you mean what am I doing here? People are usually a little happier than this when they're rescued."

Shemal stared back. "You shouldn't be here. I don't understand."

"Why do you keep asking that like I wouldn't come for you?" Lesto withdrew. "We'll talk about this later. Are you all right, other than your obviously addled head?"

"My head isn't addled, you enthusiastic mother fucking—"

Lesto's mouth twisted. "You can't be feeling too awful if you're back to declaring I particularly enjoy fucking my mother, though you could bother to look happy to see me." A guard came running up before he could say more and vanished behind the altar after examining the chains briefly.

A few minutes later, Shemal's arms were free. He groaned as he tried to work the stiffness and pain from his abused shoulders.

"Are you all right?" Lesto asked again, voice softer, expression concerned and confused as he looked Shemal over.

Shemal nodded. "Been worse. Could use some rest." He stared at Lesto, at a loss. Why wasn't he angry? Where was Bestowen? "I still don't understand what's going on or why you're here. What about Bestowen? The star they keep mentioning?"

Lesto's face hardened. "You don't have to keep looking so damned surprised that I came for you. At the very least, you could have expected me to return a damned favor. Gratifying to know your real opinion of me." Before Shemal could say anything, he rose and started calling out to his men, bringing officers running to report.

Watching Lesto do what he did best was more enthralling than it had any right to be, especially when Shemal couldn't even explain what had just happened. He'd expected Lesto to be angry with him… then Lesto had shown up… and not been angry with him until Shemal
made
him angry.

Life was a good deal less confounding when Lesto wasn't in it.

A pair of soldiers approached him before he could go after Lesto and bid Shemal follow them outside to a waiting horse. Why it took two of them to say that, Shemal couldn't begin to guess and didn't care enough to ask. He limped after them, one hand curled protectively over the spot where his ribs ached the most.

When they reached the horse, he stared at it as exhaustion washed over him. "I'm not sure I can climb on that. Where's Lesto?"

"Commander's up there, sorting out the prisoners," one of them said. "We can help you up, or we can get a cart if you prefer. Think there's one about."

Shemal shook his head. No way was he riding in a cart like a child or a whiny noble. "Help me on the horse, and we'll just have to hope I can stay on it."

Mounting the horse took far more effort than it should have, and pretty much every part of his body hated him for it, but he did at last manage it. He thanked the soldiers, who smiled, sketched slight bows, and strode briskly off to their own horses.

Looking toward Lesto, Shemal hesitated. Could he ride over there? Should he stay back?

He startled when Lesto's gaze abruptly turned to him, caught his eyes. Shemal froze, not able to look away but not sure if he should stare either. Damn it, he wanted Lesto. To be close to him. To see him happy. Why was Lesto mad at him for all the wrong things?

Lesto looked away, resumed speaking to the rather ominous-looking woman at his side, and the fragile hope Shemal hadn't realized existed withered and died. It shouldn't matter. He'd spent every second of his captivity convinced Lesto hated him. What did it matter if it was for a different reason? The end result was the same.

A relationship between a powerful, respected lord and a criminal had always been doomed to sink. Shemal should be grateful it had ended with so little fuss. He could have been thrown out, arrested, mysteriously vanished…

The two soldiers from before rejoined him, one on either side, and Shemal had little choice but to fall into step as they rode back to the palace. More than once, he considered just riding off, but he was exhausted and in far too much pain to get very far. And like so many other occasions, more than he cared to count, he had not a pence to his name. What little money he'd had on him when he'd been kidnapped had been taken by his captors.