The Wheel of Osheim (The Red Queen's War 3)

“You don’t want to use your credit?” Serra called after me.

“Maybe later . . .” I’d stopped turning but my head kept spinning, and it wasn’t all too much afternoon wine. Lisa DeVeer a slave in Port French? How?

“You’re still wondering what the fourth way is, aren’t you?” She called the words at my back.

I didn’t answer, but truth be told, even with thoughts of Lisa swirling in my head . . . I was.

The sun was setting as I walked back up the gangplank onto the Santa Maria. The quays were quieter, though far from quiet. There’s a hush that settles as the sea turns crimson and the shadows reach. The shadowmasts stretch out from ships at rest, venturing farther and farther, across the docks, up the warehouse walls, meshing, merging until only the highest ridge is lit, the sun’s last rays burning on the mansions where pirate lords and pirate ladies play at nobility.

“You back to water those fucking beasts of yours?” Bartoli loomed behind me as I stood at the rail looking out across the sea. Time was when a man took a risk interrupting me at sunset, but Aslaug no longer even whispered.

“They’re camels, for Christsake. Camels don’t drink. Everyone knows that.” I held a hand in front of his face to forestall any reply. “Corsairs trade in flesh—but they don’t raid for it . . . do they?” Asking questions in Port French might well get Rollas his throat cut. Me, I’d ask my questions on the Santa Maria. Much safer.

“You looking to buy? You can’t even look after camels!”

“Where do they get their slaves from?” I stuck to my question. “Slavers bring them in, obviously.” Bartoli rubbed at the blackness of his beard and spat noisily over the rail. “Corsairs will sell on prisoners off a ship, but they don’t snatch from ports or raid inland. Even pirates need friends. Don’t shit where you eat. That’s a lesson for everyone . . . except your fucking camels, apparently.”

“So . . . where would someone buy a slave?”

“At a slave market.” Bartoli gave me the same look he’d been giving me for days, the “you’re an idiot” look.

“And where—”

“Take your pick. Must be a dozen of ’em. First one is just over there, general market, behind the Crooked Jacks warehouse, big one with the shingle roof, tobacco and such. Second one is a kids market, just past the King’s Heart tavern at the bottom of Main.”

“A dozen?” It seemed like a lot to check out just on a hunch and the back of a man’s head.

Bartoli furrowed his brow and stared at his fingers. “Thirteen.”

I felt the ripple run through me as the planets aligned. “Thirteen?”

“Thirteen.”

First stop, second sister, thirteen . . . “Where’s the thirteenth?”

“Way up, past the lords’ houses, back in the hills.” He waved a thick arm at the town. “They actually call it Thirteen. S’how I figured there’s thirteen. Not so much selling goes on there. More of a . . . how’d you call it? School? Training up quality females. Not for the likes of us though. Sell ’em on to rich men in Maroc and the interior.”

And so it was that on the following morning a hunch, the back of a man’s head, the memory of Lisa DeVeer’s many charms, and two devious mathmagicians, had me toiling up through the streets of Port French nursing a hangover. I found myself drenched in sweat despite the cloud wrack burgeoning over the hills of Cag Liar. Storm coming. I didn’t need to be a sailor or a farmer to know that.

Yusuf had set me up for this. I knew it. From plotting out my route home to handing over those three little numbers that he must have known I would ask for. I resolved to settle my scores with Omar and his master in due course. For now I kept on walking, manfully resisting the various taverns opening onto the street, the rattle of gaming wheels from low garrets, and the calls of commercially-minded young women from arched windows.

I’d slept on the Santa Maria the previous night. My afternoon’s drinking had caught up with me and I’d settled on a big coil of rope by the forecastle steps just to rest my eyes. The next thing I knew seagulls were crapping on me and an unreasonably bright morning was in progress, with sailors shouting too loudly and the keenest salesmen already setting out their quayside stalls.

After forcing down a hearty breakfast I decided to do the honourable thing and see if I could find Lisa. I considered searching Rollas out—if it was Rollas—but at least I knew Lisa wouldn’t be wandering about. And besides, the chances were that Rollas had already asked enough questions to get himself knifed and dumped in the docks. Or knowing Rollas, to have knifed his attackers first and then had to flee.