For a ship as big as this, it sure took a long time to find any privacy.
They were nearly two days out of Torva, drifting down the Ironblood in the lord’s prize galley. Robin had spent most of that time wandering the ship above and below deck. Cleaver had his own quarters, of course, but everyone else was bunking below deck in shared quarters.
It had taken Robin quite a while to find a place that seemed fairly secluded: deep in the hold, behind a stack of crates and sacks of grain. When he found it, the first thing he did was lay down a bedroll and take a nice, long nap.
In truth, however, he didn’t really need privacy to nap. The Iron Lance was crewed by seasoned sailors and rivermen of Torva, supplemented by a score of the fat high lord’s best men. These men followed Cleaver like he had gold stowed up his rectum, and though they were men-at-arms they also seemed to know the ship well.
All of which meant there were simply no chores for Steelshod to do, save check on the horses occasionally. Only Gunnar seemed interested in participating in the workings of the galley itself. Robin hardly even had any duties to shirk, here.
That doesn’t mean a man can’t scrounge up something to do with a little privacy, Robin thought as he began prowling the ship.
His options were limited. The Torvan men-at-arms were all men, and Robin wasn’t willing to risk losing his hiding spot by inviting any of the women that worked the ship’s crew.
That left Steelshod.
Prudence was right out. For one thing, the Taraamite twerp had laid a claim to her. Whatever malicious glee he might take at getting one over on Perrin was outstripped by the other troubles Prudence posed, however.
He can have her. Even setting Perrin aside, Prudence barely appealed to Robin. Her tits were so small he doubted she had them at all. Might as well just fuck one of the blokes, at that point. No, Robin reassured himself, he was not so desperate as to make a pass at Prudence.
Besides, she made him nervous.
But that didn’t leave too many options. Robin went for the best of them first, hopeful that maybe this time would be different than the last. He made his way along the top deck of Iron Lance, and soon spotted the savage hill barbarian.
Cara was sitting on an overturned bucket, whittling a long tapered piece of wood. Robin didn’t like that she had a knife in hand, but he figured she wouldn’t stab him out here in front of so many people. Probably.
Cara wasn’t actually watching what she whittled. Her eyes were ahead, where Yorrin and his teacher had staked out a section of the deck for practicing their bladework.
“High! Low! Low!”
“Ow! You said low, damn it!” Yorrin snarled.
Robin snorted. Classic.
“Si, my words said this. But what did my sword say? What did my feet say? Observe atentamente! Watch! Not with your eyes. With your blade, Yorrin. When your blade kisses the blade of your enemy, you must feel this. The bind, it is called. Feel the bind, and let it guide you. Again!”
Yorrin muttered something under his breath, but he shifted back into position. They went back to sparring as Robin plunked himself down beside Cara.
“What’re you doing there?” Robin asked.
She glanced at him, arching an eyebrow.
God damn, she’s beautiful. Cara was still an untamed savage in manner—and even in dress, aside from the tailored Steelshod cloak. But even that added to her allure in its way. Her hair was a wild tangle of curly red locks that tumbled all about her head and down her back. Her pale cheeks were flecked with freckles, her lips looked plump and delicious.
The rough Wncari leathers she wore didn’t hide her figure, either. She was lean, with defined muscles visible in her bare arms. Her bosom wasn’t quite as big as was Robin’s preference, but it curved nicely. He had no doubt that if he got her undressed he’d at least get a good pair of handfuls.
Eventually, Robin’s eyes finished feasting on her body and he finally noticed the tapered wood in her hands. She was fashioning it into a single straight rod. There was a stack of rough staves beside her. He saw an open bag of goosefeathers by her feet, and beside that a smaller pouch that seemed to have toppled over and spilled out a few iron broadheads.
And, of course, there was a neat stack of perhaps a half-dozen finished arrows beside her.
“D’you have to ask, truly?” Cara said. She shook her head. “Daft.”
“Right, I see now that you’re making arrows,” Robin said. “Though, uh… that does beg the question of why you’re making arrows.”
She curled her lip in an expression of confused disdain. Robin knew the look well. He hated that look.
“To shoot folk with, I expect,” Cara said. “I don’t plan on givin’ them a tickle.”
“No, no, I saw you shoot some of those Svards when they ambushed the ferry,” Robin agreed. “It didn’t look like it tickled. I just meant—we can buy arrows, can’t we?”
“Aye, I suppose,” Cara said. “You lowlanders are keen to pay others to do what you could do yourself.”
“Hey now,” Robin said. “I’m not a Caedian. Grew up way out east, far side of Kirkworth.”
“Lowlander, still,” Cara muttered. Her hands hadn’t stopped whittling the whole time, and she glanced down at her work as she ran a hand up and down the shaft. She returned to whittling, taking thin shavings of wood with each swipe of her blade.
“We lived rough out there. Slept under the stars, lived off the land, waylaid the unwary on the road. It wasn’t so different from you hillfolk,” Robin said. Except for not being savages, anyway.
“But you didn’t make your own arrows?” Cara asked.
“Well, I didn’t,” Robin said. “We stole most of our arrows. Best was when we took them off of poachers. Who’re they going to complain to?” He chuckled at the memory. “For a time we had a fellow, Old Jed Blackthumb. He could make fine arrows, but he shat himself to death before he’d been with us a year. A few of the lads could make new shafts and fletching, but we didn’t exactly have many smiths. Where’d you get those arrowheads, then, if you didn’t buy them?”
Cara frowned. “I made them,” she said. “The smithy at Northwatch. Didn’t properly smith them, though. Just old scraps of iron. Hammered them into shape.” She reached down and grabbed one of the arrowheads, then tossed it to Robin.
It was an ugly thing, and softer than Robin had expected. They weren’t made of iron hardened in the forge. Robin doubted they would have much hope of penetrating gambeson, much less the mail that was common among the best reavers. But he wouldn’t want one stuck into his exposed flesh. For all that the arrowhead was crude, with visible hammer dents, the bladed edge appeared to have been honed as much as it could be.
“Huh,” he said. “Not bad. We could’ve used someone like you in the Songbirds.”
Cara shrugged. She took the arrowhead back and dropped it in its bag. “In the hills, we didn’t care for lowlander bandits any more than your kin do. The Cúig Dhorn would string your kind up from the trees and let the crows at them while they still lived.”
Robin’s eyes widened. “Uh. I thought crows only ate the dead.”
Cara shrugged. “Suppose y’ hang a man from a tree for long enough and he starts lookin’ like a corpse. I heard they’d usually start at the face, go for the soft bits. Eyes. Cheeks. Lips.”
Robin’s passions felt somewhat dampened by Cara’s choice of topic, but he soldiered on. It may be macabre, but at least she’s talking to me! It was surely an improvement. He recalled the last time he’d tried to make pleasant conversation with the Wncari woman. They’d been days on the road to Northwatch. He’d thought perhaps she would be as lonely as he was.
“Hey, wench, I could use some company tonight. You up for a little fun? Ever seen a Middish cock before?”
It had not gone as he hoped. It’ll go better this time, Robin decided.
“I suppose I’ve got something in common with crows, then,” he said, grinning. “I also tend to go for the soft bits. Cheeks, lips…” He trailed off, hoping that his expression would do the talking for him.
Cara stopped, her knife mid-stroke down the arrow shaft. She inhaled, then exhaled.
“Don’t,” she said quietly.
That’s not promising. “Don’t? We’re just talking, aren’t we?” Robin chanced at playing dumb.
“I told you before,” Cara said. She lifted her knife off the rod of wood. She looked at Robin with an intense glare, her green eyes staring straight through him. “What I’d do if you showed me that cock o’ yours.”
“No. And if I see one, I’m cuttin’ it off.”
Robin swallowed. “Um,” he said. “Yes, quite, I remember. But I didn’t—”
“Same goes for the rest of your parts,” she said. “Kiss me, touch me, and see what happens, Sweet Robin.”
“I wouldn’t—” Robin felt his voice crack. He coughed, and took a moment to regain his composure. “Wouldn’t dream of it, dear. I was just making conversation.”
“Make it with someone else,” Cara said.
She turned back to her arrow, shaving off the bit she’d stopped at earlier. She ran her fingers along the wood again, and this time she seemed satisfied. She reached for goosefeathers.
That could have gone better.
“Fine, fine,” Robin said after a momentary pause. “No need to be a bitch about—”
“Everything alright, Rotten?”
Yorrin’s smug tone was not what Robin wanted to hear. He looked up in annoyance. Olivenco seemed to be preoccupied talking to his stuttering lickspittle, and Yorrin had sauntered over to stand a few feet from where Cara and Robin sat. He held his steel blades, their tips lowered towards the deck of the ship.
“Oh it’s just bloody wonderful,” Robin said, glaring.
Yorrin didn’t notice, or chose not to react to it. Robin felt it was probably the latter. Arrogant bastard.
“Are you offering to help her make more of those?” Yorrin asked. He sheathed his sword and reached down to pick up one of the finished arrows.
“I hadn’t planned to,” Robin said.
“No, he won’t,” Cara said at the same time. She was attaching feathers along the nock at the back of the arrow, and she didn’t bother to look up.
Yorrin slid his dagger into its sheath as well, and handled the arrow more intently. He felt the twin bladed curves of the arrowhead. “Hm,” he made a skeptical noise. “The shaft feels straight enough, so I’m sure it’ll fly true. But this arrowhead…”
“Crudely made, yep, that’s what I said!” Robin agreed.
Cara frowned. “They—”
“No, no, shut up Rotten. Crudely made with cheap iron is fine. Cheap iron is cheap, that’s the draw,” Yorrin ran a finger down one of the curved sides of the arrowhead. “It’s not like she’s trying to make bodkins out of the stuff. Broadheads like this are best against exposed flesh anyway.”
Cara seemed to brighten at that, and she nodded. “Aye,” she said. “Got the right of it.”
“My problem is in your fixative,” Yorrin said to the Wncari. He shifted his position subtly, away from Robin, as if to cut him from the conversation. “You didn’t affix the arrowhead with a pin or a nail. What did you use? Beeswax? Judging by the bit of wobble I can get out of it, you should use more.”
Cara shook her head. “Not beeswax, no.”
“What, then?” said Yorrin.
Cara shrugged. She reached down to grab one of the arrowheads, and she carefully jammed it onto the head of the shaft. “That,” she said.
Yorrin cocked his head. “I didn’t see you use anything.”
“Aye,” Cara agreed. “Nothin’. That’s what I used.”
Robin laughed. “That’s what you get when a savage makes an arrow! The damn things’ll fall right off!”
Cara nodded. “Aye,” she said. “That’s the idea.”
“Oh!” Yorrin said. He chuckled, but not at Cara the way Robin was laughing.
What? Robin didn’t follow what had amused Yorrin. He looked back and forth between them. He disliked the way they were both smiling and giggling now, as if they were in on some joke.
“They’re not meant for huntin’ beasts,” Cara said. “They’re meant for men. To wound.”
“The arrowheads will come loose inside the target,” Yorrin said. “Nasty. I like it, Cara. Your clan does this often?”
She nodded. “Lowlanders are good at takin’ arrows out clean, but if the head comes loose they usually find it a bit trickier.”
Yorrin seemed genuinely impressed. He began to ask her another question, and Robin was surprised to see the redheaded savage smile and answer him enthusiastically.
Well, if I’d known all I had to do to get on your good side was pretend to give a shit about some stupid arrows maybe we’d be down in the hold by now, he thought.
While they discussed arrows and archery with entirely too much excitement, Robin was forgotten. That suited him fine, and he slipped away from them before Yorrin tried again to get him to join in the arrow-making.
Robin made his way across the ship. He narrowly avoided catching Gunnar’s notice when the Svard called for another pair of hands. Robin laid low until someone else popped up to help—the old Loonie, Michel, which struck Robin as amusing for some reason he couldn’t quite figure out.
Ignorant, violent northern heathen working side-by-side with a stuffy, over-civilized Loonie prig, he decided. That was reason enough to be amused. How Aleksandr imagined this ragtag ill-fitting group could ever really come together was beyond him.
He passed Michel’s master puking his guts over the side of the ship. We’re not even out in the sea yet. They say the rocking is much worse out there. Poor frog.
Aleksandr looked slightly less queasy than Leon, but still unhappy. Robin kept his distance, especially when he noticed Perrin was standing nearby, yammering on to their commander about something. Aleksandr only seemed to be half-listening, but that didn’t stop Perrin.
After searching the Iron Lance a while longer, Robin headed belowdeck and managed to find who he was looking for.
She’s not as pretty as the savage, but at least you know she’s easy.
The Spatalian was tall. Nearly as tall as Robin, in truth. Her dark hair hung to her shoulders, but it was pulled back in a simple tail. Her skin was the tanned olive that seemed fairly common to most Spits. She was dressed in a simple tunic and leggings, and Robin could appreciate that her armor normally must do a lot to bind down what looked to be a small but serviceable bust.
She was laughing, and it did her no favors. Her face was long and horse-like, with thin lips and a too-sharp nose that drew the eye. Maybe I can fuck her from behind, he decided. At least she’s lean and strong, with a nice firm backside. And I bet she’s like a wild mare once you get her going.
“Alejandra!” Robin said with a grin. “How do you like the river?”
She looked his way. She was sitting at a table with the other two Spits, of course. They tended to gamble together. Fortunately, it was just the three of them. Robin could do without Bear’s commentary just now.
“It’s fine,” she said. She sounded wary. “You wish to join us?” She gestured to the table, where they had a few bone dice and seemed to be gambling with tiny copper farthings.
“Sure!” he said, pulling up a stool. Keep it friendly.
Robin liked to think he’d learned his lesson since the last time he’d taken a run at the Spit.
“So, you’re the company slut, right? When do the rest of us get our turn?”
Robin involuntarily rubbed his jaw. It had long since healed, but the memory of the bruise remained. He put it out of his mind. It’ll be different this time.
He took a few throws, lost a couple coins, and they seemed to decide he could stay. He smiled and laughed when the short one said something in garbled Middish. Martín was honestly Robin’s favorite of the three. At least he was cheerful, even if he was clearly dumber than a sack of dirt.
Alejandra warmed up to him as they played. She chuckled when he made a crack about Leon’s inability to keep down breakfast. It was going well, he decided. Much better than last time.
How was I supposed to know she’d be so sensitive? He wondered. She lets two men plow her every night, and she had the gall to act like I’m the one that acted improperly?
He played and laughed with them for the better half of an hour before he sensed that his moment had arrived. Carlito excused himself to take a piss. Martín was too stupid to understand a proper language.
“So, Alejandra,” Robin said.
She frowned immediately. “Si?”
“No, no, don’t look at me like that!” Robin protested. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
“I suppose,” she said. “Hermanos, anyway. Brothers in arms.”
“Brothers?” Robin said, chuckling. “I’ve had many brothers over the years, none looked so fine as you!”
Alejandra rolled her eyes. “Si, si, fine.”
“You know, I have a little secret,” Robin said. He tried to cast a mischievous twinkle to his eyes.
Alejandra looked less curious than he’d hoped she would be. “Oh?” She said, her tone flat.
“I was wandering the ship, and I found something down in the hold,” he said.
Martín blathered something in Spittleish, and Alejandra nodded. “Martín asks if it is spirits?”
Robin frowned. “Booze? I wish,” he muttered. “No, not that. Nearly as good! I found a hiding spot.”
“Hiding?” Alejandra’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “What are you hiding from? There is not much work to do on the ship.”
Hmph. “No, not to hide from work. To hide from prying eyes. It’s a nice little spot with privacy, Alejandra. I laid out my bedroll and there was room to spare. Lots of boxes to muffle any, uh, noises too.” He grinned, and waggled his eyebrows at her in a charming manner.
Alejandra’s lips grew even thinner than usual. She leaned back in her seat and pointedly cracked her knuckles. “I would choose my next words carefully, amigo.”
Robin swallowed. “Uh, right. I was just thinking… well, look. I’m not calling you a slut—”
“Wise,” she interjected. She didn’t look charmed, but at least she didn’t look as furious as she had the last time. Martín was still grinning like an idiot.
“You’re Spatalian,” Robin continued. “Mores are different there! You’re a hot blooded people, or so I’ve heard. Nothing wrong with that. Hell, my ma used to say I’ve got a little Spatalian blood on my da’s side, and I’d believe it.”
Alejandra stared at him impassively, hands still clasped on the table in front of her.
“Point being, it’s boring out here. And it’s—I’m awfully lonely, too. You’re not a slut, but, well, you’re not married to either of your lads either, are you? If you bed with both of them, it stands to reason neither of them has a—a claim to you. Right?”
Robin was sweating. This isn’t going to plan. He’d expected to charm her, not fumble his way between her thighs with half-baked arguments. But when he looked nervously into her eyes, he actually thought he saw a glimmer of amusement.
“Right,” she said after an uncomfortable pause. “You’ve said one true thing today, to my surprise. No man has a claim to me.”
“See?” Robin blurted out. “Exactly! So—well—that is—look. I found a place for some privacy. My Middish charm might go over your head, but I know my way around a wench—woman. A woman. I promise, I’ll not leave you unsatisfied. So I was wondering…” He hesitated. He felt a phantom pain in his jaw, where she’d slugged him the last time.
“You wish to lead me to your hiding place in the hold,” Alejandra said. “So that I will fuck you.”
“Precisely!” Robin said.
He heard a chuckle behind him. Carlito. Damn it.
The tall, lean Spatalian strode past Robin and sat back down. Martín leaned close to him and said something in the fast gibberish of their homeland. Carlito replied, and then Alejandra joined them. Robin squirmed in his seat as the three of them stared at him while they conversed.
After an uncomfortably long time, they finally switched back to Middish.
“Alright, we accept,” Alejandra said.
Robin hooted in excitement. Then he paused. “We?”
“Si,” Alejandra said with a smirk. “No man has a claim to me, but we are lovers. I’m not in the mood to go without them, nor they without me.”
Robin hesitated. He could see the amusement in all three Spits. They’re expecting you to balk, he told himself. Hah! It’s not like it’ll be the first time you’ve taken turns on a wench with a few other lads.
“Perfect!” he said, leaping to his feet. “If you’re that insatiable, then I say the more the merrier!”
Martín nudged Carlito and muttered something to him, nodding in Robin’s direction. Carlito chuckled.
“Alright, that’s no fair though,” Robin said. “What’d he say?”
“He said he thinks your Middish charm has worked on him. He is looking forward to this.”
Robin blinked. “Uh.” Wait a minute… He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “It did? He is? I mean—he’s looking forward to what, exactly?”
The three of them exchanged amused expressions. Alejandra finally shook her head, laughing. “You, Robin. He is looking forward to you. He likes your attitude. He says he hopes it will make you a surprisingly enjoyable lover.”
“But—I mean. I—”
“You were thinking… what?” Alejandra asked. “That you would each take turns with me? No, Robin. I don’t have two lovers all to myself. Tres amantes. We are three lovers, together. You wish to join us? You will be a fourth.”
Carlito just looked mildly amused at the whole affair, but when Robin met Martín’s eyes there was no mistaking the look in them. Alejandra was telling the truth.
“Hm,” Robin said.
“Have you changed your mind?” Alejandra asked. Her lip curled in a smug half-smile. “I take it you’re no longer interested?”
Are you? Robin asked himself. Been getting pretty desperate. This is a better response than I’ve had in weeks. We left Torva before I could find a brothel. He scratched his jaw.
“Well…” he hemmed. “I didn’t say that.”
At least we’ll have a little privacy.