Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

Polly looks at a loss, so I quickly straighten up and toss the rag down. “It’s over here,” I tell her, leading the way.

She follows me to the pantry where I show her the tankard and the last remaining pitchers. I feel her gaze on me, the questions brimming as she glances at me from the corner of her eyes. “Can you use those things? To hurt them? To escape?” Her question is no more than a hum, secrets spoken with barely a breath, but I know what she means.

I don’t dare look over my shoulder at the pirates to see if they’re watching us. “No. The captain knotted them. I can’t get them out yet.”

She breathes out through her nose, a small sound of disappointment, a deflation of hope rushing out.

“I need to bring more ale than this,” she says, voice at normal level now as she hefts the full pitchers in her arms. “Can you carry the other two?”

I hesitate for a moment, but then nod and fill two more. Together, we carry the pitchers out, Cook glaring at us as we go, the guard dog on our heels.

When we’re just outside the dining room, I stop. “I’m not allowed inside.”

Polly looks over at me with a frustrated sigh. “Fine. I’ll send someone else out to grab those.”

She takes a breath before going inside, trying to hold her head up high, trying to keep an easy smile on her face. She barely even flinches when one of them smacks her ass as she leans over to pour for him. A performance. It’s all a performance.

The room is rowdy and loud, the pirates obviously deep into their cups, the food already eaten. I see Polly head over to Rissa, saying something in her ear in passing. Rissa glances over at me before she rushes over to grab the last two pitchers.

“They sure do drink a lot,” I say quietly as I pass them over to her.

“Good for us,” she murmurs with a wink. “If we can get them drunk enough, some of them might pass out. One less bastard to deal with tonight.”

She turns away with a sultry smile plastered on her face, her act ready to appease them, ready to work the room to the best of her ability so she can come out unscathed.

Like she told the others earlier, they’re professionals, and it shows in every smirk, every tease, every sway of their hips. Fawns forced to gratify the predators. To entice them to watch, to appreciate. Persuading them to not harm, not bite.

I just hope it works.

My vision of the room gets cut off when a furious face steps in front of me. Mist’s black hair hangs in limp knots around her, the bodice of her dress sagging, either from the earlier rain, or some attention she received in here. “Typical,” she says with a snort. “The favored doesn’t even have to serve like the rest of us.”

“I’m not al—”

“Save it,” she snaps. “Can you at least take these dirty dishes back to the galley, or are you too good to even do that much?”

My teeth grind. “I understand your anger, I do,” I begin. “But instead of being so nasty toward me, save your energy for them,” I say, nodding toward the quiet soldiers.

“As if you care.”

I do, of course, but she won’t believe me no matter what I say.

She shoves the dirty dishes into my arms before spinning around again. I take my armful to the kitchen, where I stay for the next hour in front of a bucket of cold, barely sudsy water and scrub every dish clean.

The saddles file in one after another, bringing me more to wash until my back is aching, my hands chapped and numb. But I use my time well. I scrub out my frustration on the dishes while my ribbons keep plucking at the knots, inch by sluggish inch. I use the sash to my advantage, hiding their every move.

Keep going. All I can do is keep going.

When I’m finally done washing, the guard dog hoists me up by the arm. “Come on, I want to get up there to see what’s happening.”

I wipe my wet, freezing hands on the front of my dress, feet tripping to keep up with his impatience. He’s obviously bored of being my babysitter.

“Stay at my side and keep your mouth shut, got it?”

With a nod, I follow beside him as we go upstairs to the main deck, where I find all of the saddles lined up in front of me.

Soon, they’ll all be gone. They’ll leave with Fourth’s men, and I’ll be left here. I’ll be trapped, kept without any bars, but no less captive.

I don’t know which is worse. Wolves or foxes. Merciless pirates or enemy soldiers.