Sail lowered, they rowed hard, heading for one of the countless landing points hidden throughout Ithicana.
The rain fell in a deluge, making it almost impossible to see as they wove between two towers of limestone and into a tiny cove with cliffs on all sides. From the top of one of the cliffs two heavy wooden beams reached out over the water, ropes with hooks dangling from each of them. Lia lunged, catching hold of one of the hooks and clipping it to the ring mounted at the stern of the vessel.
Aren passed his paddle to a white-faced Lara. “If we get too close to the walls, push the boat away.”
She nodded, holding the wooden paddle like a weapon. Behind him, Taryn waited until the boat swung around to the right angle, then jumped, catching hold of a rope hanging from the cliff, climbing swiftly to the top.
“Aren, get over here and help.” Jor and Gorrick had removed the pin holding the mast in place and were struggling to heave it out of its base. Aren stumbled over a seat, then caught hold of the mast and added his strength to the effort. The mast popped out right as a violent swell lifted the boat, sending both mast and Gorrick tumbling into the water.
Aren fell backward on his ass, leaving only Jor standing, the old man shaking his head in disgust. “Why does this never get easier?” He reached down and clipped the other line to the boat, while Aren helped the swimming Gorrick lash the mast to the side.
An exhausting eternity later, they finally lifted the second boat onto shore with the winch, where they tied it down, the lot of them trudging around the bend of rock to where the safe house waited.
The interior of the stone building was mercifully dry and free from gusting wind. After assigning two of the men to first watch, Aren slammed the wooden door shut with more force than was necessary. Without fail, his eyes went immediately to Lara, who stood at the center of the room holding the bag full of supplies.
“Are there many of these places?” She turned in a circle.
There wasn’t much to see. Bunks made of wood and rope lined two of the walls. Crates of supplies were piled against the third wall, and the fourth was mostly taken up by the door. His guards were all pulling off their boots and tunics to dry, then turning their attention to their weapons, which all needed to be sharpened and oiled.
“Yes.” He tugged off his own tunic and tossed it on a bunk. “But as you noticed, they’re a damned pain in the ass to use in the middle of a storm.”
“Will the storm sink the rest of the Amaridian fleet?” she asked, and the guard chuckled, reminding him that everyone was listening.
“No. But they’ll move out into open water rather than risk being driven up onto a shoal or against any rocks. Will give us a bit of respite.”
One of her eyebrows rose. “Not the most comfortable respite.”
“Now, now,” Jor said. “Don’t be so swift to discount the comforts of a safe house. Particularly a Midwatch safe house.” He went over to one of the crates, prying open the lid and looking inside. “His Grace has fine tastes, so he ensures anywhere he might have to spend a night is stocked with only the best.”
“Are you complaining?” Aren sat on the bottom bunk and leaned back against the wall.
Jor extracted a dusty bottle. “Amaridian fortified wine.” He held it closer to the lantern on the singular table and read the label. “No, Your Grace, I am most certainly not complaining.”
Popping the cork, Jor poured a measure into the tin cups Lia set out, handing one to Lara. He held one up. “Cheers to the Amarid vintners who make the finest drink of the known world, and to their fallen countrymen, may they rot in the depths of the Tempest Seas.” Then the old soldier cleared his throat. “And to our own fallen, may the Great Beyond gift them clear skies and smooth seas and endless women with perfect tits.”
“Jor!” Lia jabbed him in the arm. “A goodly number of our fallen were women. I’m sure at least a few of them liked men. At least let them be surrounded by—”
“Perfect cocks?” Nine sets of surprised eyes turned to look at Lara, who shrugged.
“Where mortal life fails, the Great Beyond delivers,” Jor intoned, and Aren flung his boot at him.
Lia threw up her hands. “People died. Show respect.”
“I am respecting them. Disrespecting them would’ve been toasting their sacrifice with this sludge.” Jor plucked a bottle of foggy Maridrinian wine from the crate. It rattled, and he gave it an incredulous glare, eyeing what appeared to be a rock sitting in the bottom of the bottle. “Not bad enough by itself, they need to put bits of rock in it?” His eyes flicked to Lara. “Is this some strange test of the fortitude of Maridrinian stomachs that I haven’t heard about?”
Everyone smirked, then Gorrick roared, “To Ithicana!” They all repeated him, lifting their glasses.
As Aren swallowed the wine, which was very good, he heard Lara murmur, “To Ithicana,” and take a small sip from her glass.
Refilling the glasses, Aren stood. “To Taryn, who slaughtered our enemy. And to our queen,” he pulled Lara forward, “Who saved our comrades.”
“To Taryn!” everyone shouted. “To Her Majesty!”
The wine disappeared within minutes, for despite the flippancy, today had left its mark. It was how they managed—by pretending not to care, but Aren knew that Jor would make time for each of them, helping them come to terms with what they’d witnessed. And with what they had done. He was captain of the guard for a reason.
Lara was hugging her arms around her body, shivering despite the wine. The wind and rain had been colder than Ithicana normally saw, and her clothes were soaked through. He watched her eye the other women, who were stripped down to trousers and undershirts, and then her hand went to her belt.
His heart skipped, then raced as she unbuckled it, setting it aside along with the Maridrinian marriage knives she habitually wore. Then she unfastened the laces of her tunic at her throat and pulled the garment over her head.
The safe house went completely silent for a heartbeat, then filled with the over-loud clatter of weapons being cleaned and mindless chatter, everyone looking anywhere but at their queen.
Aren could not seem to do the same. While the other women wore thick standard-issue fabrics, Lara’s undergarments were the finest ivory silk, which was soaked, rendering it effectively transparent. The full curves of her breasts pressed against the fabric, her rose-colored nipples peaked from the cold. There was, Aren thought, nothing the Great Beyond could offer that would be more perfect than her.
Realizing he was staring, Aren jerked his gaze away. Snatching up a thin blanket folded at the end of the bunk, he handed it to Lara, careful to keep his eyes on her face. “It will warm up in here with all the bodies—I mean, people. Soon. It will be warmer soon.”
Her smile was coy as she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, but her mirth at his discomfort fell away as she caught sight of Jor examining one of her knives.
He had the jeweled thing out of its sheath and was testing the edge. “Sharp.” He used it to cut the wax off a wheel of Harendellian cheese. “I thought these were supposed to be ceremonial?”
“I thought it wise to render them somewhat useful,” Lara replied, expression intent.
“Barely.” Jor balanced the weapon, the gem-crusted hilt making it heavy and cumbersome, though the blade itself looked well made. “We could sell these for a fortune up north and get you something you might actually be able to use.”