Chapter 2

They kept vellum, quill pens, and inks for map-making in the room beside the captain's quarters, and it was to this room that Killian brought the maiden. He kept his distance, and merely spoke until she calmed down. Unfortunately, as he found out that, neither of them could draw people very well, and Killian couldn't very well pantomime the request for the identities of her rapists. In the end, he set up a hammock in the map-making room and demonstrably left the key on the table, and even more demonstrably showed the maiden that the door was to be barred from the inside—because by now, every man on ship knew how to pick a lock—and he left the room. When he heard the plank fall across the doorway, he told himself that it was time to attend to other matters. Reporting to the cook that they had failed to renew supplies, for instance.

Cookson had already heard. "But we supplied ourselves with a woman, didn't we, Captain." It wasn't a question, and the cook's expression was solemn. "That was a line I thought you'd never cross."

Killian bit back a harsh reply, and forced a smile. "You and I seem to be the only men on this ship who think so."

At that, Cookson sighed with relief. "She still lives, then?"

"That she does."

"Poor thing!"

Killian was baffled by the cook's reaction. "I just told you that she still lives. Rape is rude, and artless, but it's hardly fatal."

"There's some dishonor that's worse than death," Cookson said.

"I know that," said Killian, beginning to get quite cross. "You know I know that. The dishonor's theirs, not hers. If only I knew who they were. She's just had a fright, that's all—and she doesn't speak our language. When she's in her right mind again, I've half a mind to line the crew up and hand her a loaded pistol."

At that, Cookson balked. "Captain, no!"

"Those weren't a smart pair of words to put together, Cookson," said Killian, sharply.

"That is to say," said Cookson, more gently, "You couldn't mean that…" A raised eyebrow from the captain dared the cook to continue, and he did: "For my family's safety, I haven't sent word to them on land since joining your crew. That could have been my sister, and then where's the honor you promised us? That's why I'm concerned. But I'm not the only one who gave up the world to join you—we all did, and what you're saying to do them, well, that just isn't right, either."

"Do you think I've forgotten? They've been my brothers-in-arms since Liam went to the deep—" Killian felt a pang, just saying his brother's name. "But I won't have this on my ship."

"Those that didn't do it are on the side of those that did," Cookson blurted. "If you won't have this, you won't have a crew."

"You're full of gossip and opinions today, cook!" The sarcasm in Killian's voice made Cookson flinch. "Well, out with it. What have they said?"

"Foggerty came back to the gunner room, saying…They've all laughed off your latest threat to have them walk the plank…"

"Nothing new, there. Go on."

"They've got it into their heads that you're only cross that they didn't let you have her first, and now you want to make up for it by having her to yourself."

Killian made a sound that was half a scoff and half a humorless laugh.

"They expect you to kill her after. If you don't…" Cookson trailed off. "I don't know what they'll do."

What demons to talk so, thought Killian, but he affected a casual air. "You worry too much, Cookson, and about all the wrong things. How often do the gunmen come into the kitchens to chat? Murphy's a bad influence." He could see that Cookson was about to say more, and interrupted him with, "No. Enough. Tell me about dinner."

Cookson began to search the tins in the pantry. As he searched, he said, "There's just enough salted fish to almost make a full meal for everyone today, but that's if we starve tomorrow. Shall I halve the portions instead?"

"No," Killian decided. He knew that Flint the First Mate had already directed Nigels the Navigator and Harrison the Helmsman to the merpeople's surface town of Reef. "We can catch the last of the floating market before it goes underwater again. What are you looking for?"

The cook had found it: a large pouch of dried leaves. "You really won't put the girl to death? She might take it as a mercy."

Killian sighed. "I won't put anyone to death today," he said, inaccurately. "Even if I could understand any such request from her, I still wouldn't. I don't support cowardice."

"Well!" Cookson threw the bag over, which Killian caught in both hands. "That's for her."

The captain took a whiff, and recognized the smell. "Squaw mint?"

"If she takes enough of it as a tea, she won't get with child. Unless you think that supports cowardice as well." Cookson set to bringing out their stores of dried fish, and bread trenchers. "I'll see what I can make to soften the trenchers, it's likelier to be a soup than a sauce…Are you all right, captain?"

"Aye," Killian lied. "Carry on. Thank you for this, Cookson. I'll be off, now—"

After the courtesan's tutelage, Killian had thought he knew everything there was to know about women's bodies. It troubled him that he forgot how miniature people tended to take root and grow in them. He wondered what else he could be forgetting, or what else he didn't know, under the circumstances.

The captain's quarter's had a table, and on that table rested a pitcher of rainwater made of a similar crystal as fairy dust. In sunlight, it would heat the contents to boiling without setting fire to anything outside of it, and in darkness it would turn the contents to frost by the same magic. Killian couldn't quite sort out how to trick his crystal pitcher into thinking that candlelight was sunlight, which only happened sometimes, so he invented iced coffee once by accident and disliked it so much that he stuck to rum. Presently, he used it to brew tea, and he took it—on a tray, with a tin of biscuits—to the maiden in the map room.

She must have recognized his voice, but it took a while for her to unbar the door. When he entered, he saw map on the desk on which she had marked an arrow.

"That's where your ship was headed," he said, setting the tray down and picking up the map. More pantomiming between them confirmed that this was, indeed, where the Maimie would have docked. "Aye, we can take you there. It's the least we could do. Actually, this is the least I could do—" he gestured to the tray, "but I'll still do the other." He flashed her a smile that she didn't return.

The biscuits were gingerbread, cut into the shapes of people, which made it very easy for Killian to act out exactly what the squaw mint tea would do. He held the biscuit over his stomach with one hand, drank the cup of tea he held in the other, and then dropped the biscuit on the ground—where it ran about the cabin, daring them to catch it in a magical voice that had been baked into the sugar frosting. Killian wondered if that last bit ruined the demonstration, and he did try very much to convey that she didn't have to drink it if she didn't want to—hoping that she wouldn't—But the maiden, previously suspicious of the offering, filled the cup to the brim from the pitcher, drank it down, poured herself another, drank it while it still steamed and must have scalded the inside of her mouth, halted Killian when he tried to slow her down, and repeated the process until the pitcher was empty. Then she cried.

Killian would never attend a glummer tea party.

There was more. The maiden had drawn a sort of bangle on a parchment, and held it up to him, speaking very urgently about it through her tears.

"I don't know what to make of that," Killian said, but he took it in his hand and looked it over carefully. The bangle would have a single oval stone set in it, around which various tiny symbols were engraved. When he made expressions and gestures to the effect that he would keep the drawing, the maiden gestured that he should. He kept it in the breast pocket of his coat and left the room.