leaned against the open doorway for a time, watching him work. He was a tallish man, as dark a brown as Chetri, with narrow stooped shoulders and lush black hair he wore in a messy tail down his back. Wide, thick black eyebrows gave his eyes a severe look at odds with his mild personality. Imena found him soothing. His hands at work were as gentle as his hands would be on her skin.
She waited until he’d set aside the compass before clearing her throat. Sanji looked up and smiled. “Imena. I heard Seaflower was in.”
“Yes.” She swallowed. She opened her mouth to ask if he could spare an evening for her, but instead said, “Sanji, I’m not sure I can see you anymore.”
His welcoming expression changed to mild dismay. “That’s unfortunate for me, but … have you met someone else?”
“Yes,” she said. She might as well admit the truth. Just because she couldn’t have Maxime didn’t mean he wasn’t there, in her thoughts, seemingly inside her very skin. “I’m very fond of you, Sanji,” she admitted. “You and the boys, too. But—”
“I understand,” he said. He rose from his stool and took her hand, kissing her fingers. “I must confess, I’ve been wanting to, well, marry. Give my sons a new mother. And I wasn’t sure what you would say.”
A few weeks ago, she might have said yes. “They need someone who will be here with them,” she said. “You and I, we’re good together, but.” She took his hand in hers and drew it to her mouth, placing a kiss in his palm. “You need someone who will be here always. Don’t you? You just haven’t said so.”
“Yes,” Sanji said, his cheeks flushing. He caressed her cheek. “Will you stay for the evening meal, at least?”
“I can’t,” she said. “I need to find Chetri. A business matter.” She paused, and slipped her hand into her jacket pocket, withdrawing a small canvas bag. “I brought shark’s teeth for the boys. Remind them the teeth are sharp.”
“I will,” he said. When he took the bag from her, their fingers did not touch. He said, “They’ll miss you. You’ll visit now and again?”
Throat tight, she nodded. She said, “There is a pearl in there for you, the purple-black such as you like so well.”
“Thank you,” Sanji said. “I’ll think of you when I wear it.” He slipped the bag into his trousers pocket. He added, “You’re always welcome in my home, you know. For whatever reason.”
“And you are always welcome on Seaflower,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Goodbye, Sanji.”
“Fair sailing, Imena,” he said, and kissed her gently. They shared a long, close embrace of farewell. She walked away, her regret mingled with relief.
Imena refused to admit she’d failed at shore leave by returning to her ship. She left Sanji’s shop and wandered the streets until darkness fell. She spotted Seretse, the ship’s carpenter, at an open-air stall buying clusters of fine steel needles for the tattooing he practiced. Twice, she saw groups of her crew amusing themselves. Her purser, Arionrhod, rambled through the night market in company with One-Eye, the cook, their apprentice mates and several of the other youngsters. Later she saw a cheerful group of sailors led by Nabhi, the armsmaster, and her unofficial master’s mate, Kuan, chatting and laughing beneath the awning of a crowded coffeehouse. The opulent smell of roasting beans and honeyed pastries emanating from the latter almost enticed her to stop, but she walked on, not caring that even her callused feet were beginning to hurt from cobblestoned streets and stone pavements.
Her feet led her to the cluster of tavern-boats anchored off the far end of the docks. The licenses for such taverns cost less than those on shore, and customers could enter by boat as well as from the docks, creating privacy for business deals. Imena routinely visited offshore taverns and brothels in every port to obtain information for Maxime, but she’d never been to these. She assumed Maxime’s local staff kept their ears open here.
The carved and painted wooden sign for the Squirting Squid depicted a squid whose tentacles closely resembled long, stiff cocks, each given a distinct shape that might have come from nature. Noise spilled out from the tavern, heavy with male voices and the thwacking of leather tankards on wood; she could smell bread fried in lard and sour wine. The next tavern along looked more welcoming. Glass lanterns in bright colors hung from its railings. She could go there, if she wanted to be welcomed.
She chose the Squid, stooping through its low doorway, brushing aside the curtain of shells that served as a door. The decking was tacky with spilled wine and pine tar, and she regretted not wearing shoes. She halted in the doorway and took in the single narrow room. Its sole purpose appeared to be drinking, though trenchers of fried bread were available to soak up the alcohol if one desired. A plank propped on barrels ran the length of the space. A young man stood behind the plank, splashing wine from a skin flask directly into a row of tankards. The drinkers crowded on the other side of the plank, jostling for position. Most of them wore padded harnesses of one kind or another, with leather gloves or gauntlets shoved through their belts, the garb of porters and cargo handlers. Two men at the far end wore no shirts at all and were shaved as bald as she was; she recognized their large shoulder tattoos as those of divers, who were often employed to cut free trapped anchors, scrape hulls or retrieve items lost off the docks. She didn’t see any of Maxime’s spies whom she could identify. After a moment, she also realized she saw no women at all. Given the sign outside, she decided it had to be a men’s den, intended for quick pickups of a sexual partner for the night, or perhaps just for a few moments. Good. No one would look for her here.
Most of the noise she’d heard came through a second doorway, which led into a larger room crowded with tall tables, each just large enough for two or three tankards. A boy wiggled between the tables while carrying a tray atop his head. Imena stopped him with a click of her fingers. When she didn’t promptly hand over a tankard, he muttered, “Cup rental’s extra,” and held out his grimy hand.
Imena handed over three coppers. The boy said, “Four coppers for a bunk down below, no sleeping allowed.” She shook her head; she had no need to rent a private space. The boy pocketed the coins, unhooked a tankard from his belt and expertly aimed a stream of wine into it before ducking behind the bar for a new flask. She sniffed discreetly at the wine—awful—and pretended to take a sip as she shouldered her way into the rear cabin.
No one took notice of her. Her cap hid her distinctive face and scalp tattooing; her loose clothing hid the shape of her body. No one was looking at the floor to see her tattooed feet. She was tall and slender enough to pass as a man at a casual glance. The anonymity relaxed her. She eased between patrons clustered around the tables, heading for the end of the cabin, where one bulkhead was propped on poles, leaving that side open to the outside air.
One of the cargo handlers leaned against the outside bulkhead, another kneeling before him, apparently just having completed a brief encounter, as the kneeling man was licking his partner clean. They ignored her as they tucked away their cocks and went back inside. She glanced around but saw no others concealed in the shadows cast by the deck lamps.
If she’d been thinking logically, she would have headed inland for her solitude. Few traveled even the main road up to the castle at night. She might have sat beneath a tree in complete comfort, and forgone this tankard of wine more suited to stripping paint than drinking. But then she would not be listening to the slow lapping of the water against the sides of the boat and feeling the easy rocking beneath her feet.
She set her tankard on the deck and dangled her feet over the side, hooking one arm around a post and resting her feet on one of the ropes that
