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“I have four tall merchantmen, like you came here in, only fitted for war. We tow them just out of range. They are too tall to easily board and too slow to attack, but the wide decks hold many archers and many catapults. If the enemy ships pursue, death is rained down upon them from above. If they attack the merchantmen, our galleys return to defend them.”

“So your secret is that you practice?”

“We practice and I feed my men well. A man rows harder when he is fed and when he is paid. There are no slaves in my ships.”

“I was a slave,” said I.

“As was I,” said Othello. “Chained to an oar for three years, was I, until my ship was sunk by pirates and I floated away, saved by the broken oar that I had been shackled to.”

“Not so much rowing for me. Greasy fuckload of juggling and jesting, but very few nautical bits.”

“I don’t think you would do well at sea, friend Pocket. Men on a ship, unable to escape your chatter, might try to kill you. Have you heard of keel hauling?”

“Ha! I’ve been to sea and survived. And I was quiet the whole time, but for some retching and a wee bit of complaining.”

“Why do you need a ship?”

“You remember my monkey, Jeff?”

“A horrible creature—”

“He needs rescuing. From Genoa. As does my enormous apprentice, but I thought Jeff would evoke more sympathy.”

“And what of your puppet? Does your puppet not need rescuing as well?”

“Jones? You know he’s not real, right? I give him voice. He’s not a living creature, you know?”

“Yes, this I know,” said the Moor, dazzling a grin at me that veritably shimmered with self-congratulation. “I was making a joke.”

“Excellent point. I’ll need a ship and a pilot and a crew.”

“How did I make that point?”

“With your joke, I have seen my folly in thinking that I, an unskilled sailor, could take a ship to Genoa without help.”

“It was a good joke,” said the Moor.

“When it comes to crafting jape, thou art a soldier indeed.”

“You think because I am a soldier and you are a joker that you can make sport of me, but I am a strategist, too, Pocket of Dog Snogging, and I know when someone feints, then tries to outflank me.”

“If not for me you’d not have your Desdemona.”

“If not for me you’d be drowned,” said the Moor.

“That’s not a fair trade. I am but a wisp of a fool, a used and broken one at that, with no reason to live but revenge. Desdemona is worth a hundred of me.”

“She is my soul’s joy,” said the Moor.

“A thousand of me.”

“You shall have your ship.”

“And crew and pilot?”

“Yes, yes, but you cannot just sail into the harbor at Genoa. We are at war with them. The ship will have to put you into a longboat down the coast, out of sight, and you can row in. Do you even know where they are?”

“Yes. Well, somewhat. The Genoans are holding them for ransom. In prison, I reckon.”

“With a fair wind it will take four days to sail there, half a day for you to row in. The ship will wait two days for you, then they will leave and you will have to make your own way. I cannot come rescue you, Pocket. The harbor at Genoa is the most fortified in the world.”

“I’ll be back in little more than a week.” I slapped the Moor’s shoulder by way of thanks; he scowled at me. Really, I preferred the grin, despite the dreadful joke that preceded it.

“What of the girl?” asked the Moor.

“She’s waiting for her fiancé.”

“Who is dead, you said.”

I had told Othello of Lorenzo’s demise, although I said he’d died by my blade in a fight, not that he’d been done in by Vivian. It was quite enough to run through the whole story, from my walling-up to Antonio and Iago’s plot to take Brabantio’s seat on the council so they could start a bloody Crusade for profit without adding the complication of a bloody mermaid having me off in the dungeon and murdering Jessica’s betrothed.

“She doesn’t know that. I’ll take her with me to keep her distracted.”

“You are going to have to tell her.”

“I thought I’d just share in her dismay when he didn’t show up.”

“Take her, but tell her.”

“She’s forsaken her father and her home, now to find out that I killed her lover, even if he was an appallingly devious bastard, it would be cruel. I am all she has.”

“You must be cruel to be kind.* You are all she has.”

“That’s a flaming flagon of dragon wank, if I’ve ever heard one. She’ll be fine, waiting. When you’re waiting the world is full of promise.”

“Tell her, or no ship.”

“I’ll tell her, after we’ve rescued Drool. I may need her gold to pay ransom.”

“Promise you will tell her. Color it how you may, Pocket, but tell her.”

“I will promise to tell her if you promise to throw Iago in chains.”

“I will be cautious of Iago, but he has fought by my side in many battles and been true; I must see evidence of his betrayal before I take action.”

“He killed my Cordelia, recruited the spy that poisoned her.”

“So you say.”

“So said Brabantio. Iago is a traitor, you night-browed ninny. You cannot trust him.”

“I will keep my back to the wall in his presence and I will look for proof of what you say, but Iago is as clever as you in the way of words, subtle fool, and if I confront him on only your word, he will evade me and I will appear a tyrant. This force is mine to lead because I am steady, not rash.?

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“So I don’t have to tell Jessica that Lorenzo is dead.”

“You do,” said Othello. “Do you know the names and routes of the ships that Antonio has at sea, the ones he used to guarantee his bond to Jessica’s father?”

I pulled the parchment that Shylock had written out for me from my nun’s habit and gave it to the Moor. “They are here, and a schedule of when they are expected to return to Venice. But these do not guarantee the bond. For that Antonio promised a pound of his flesh.”

“Surely that was meant as a jest.”

“That is part of the job, but no.”

“Why are you still in nun’s clothing? Without your motley and puppet stick, I forget that you are a deeply silly man. It’s unsettling.”

“I’d make a fit nun, wouldn’t I? That’s the problem, innit? You fancy me in this nun suit, don’t you, you bloody great stallion?”

“You need to shave,” said the Moor.

“But then, eh?” I winked, tarty teasing nun that I was.

“You are silly and you make a homely nun! I will go arrange for your ship. Watch the exercises; maybe you will learn something, thou irritant fool.”

So I did watch, watched the great aquamarine slate of the Ligurian Sea laid out before me to the horizon, scored with the wake and churn of a dozen ships, but it was not the smoke and warships that drew my eye, it was that shadow just under the surface by the breakwater, waiting for me to return to the sea.

“Oh dear, Nerissa,” said Portia. “I am so distressed, I’ve scarcely had time to think about shoes.”

“And shoes surely wither with your neglect, lady, but the Duke of Aragon awaits. Shall we make our entrance?”

“I don’t look too beautiful, do I?” Portia primped as if Nerissa were a looking glass and she would know when everything looked just right by the look on her maid’s face.

Nerissa smirked. Three thousand ducats just to have a go? You’re a country villa and a lifetime of blow jobs short of being too beautiful, love, Nerissa thought. But she said, “You are perfect.”

They made their way down the stairs, Portia gliding ahead, Nerissa bouncing behind, as was their habit, to find the Duke of Aragon, a dazzlingly handsome young man with a waxed mustache and coal-blackened eyelids, waiting with a pair of manservants in the foyer.

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