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The blood flees from Praxer’s face.
My father gets nose-to-nose with the man, not bothering to check his voice this time. “Two ships were dispatched last week to punish Lord Farrek for shorting me on money! It’ll be a miracle if the frigate reaches them in time to recant the order. What kind of message doyouthink it sends the land nobles if I startpunishing them for paying me?”
“It won’t happen again.”
“You’re right-handed, are you not?”
The balding man stutters before finding his voice. “Yes, my king, why—”
“Hold him down.”
The two men who had been sitting nearest Praxer leap to their feet and restrain him. They’re likely his friends, but friendship means nothing when an order is issued by the king.
Kalligan litters the floor with plates of food as he clears the table with one swipe. Those seated nearby freeze for fear of drawing his attention.
With one hand on his head and the other at his back, the first of Praxer’s friends shoves him face first against the table. The second extends Praxer’s left arm and pins it against the wood.
“No, my king. Please—”
Praxer screams as red sprays the nearby men and tables.
“Fail me again and you’ll lose your other hand as well. Look at me!”
Praxer has sunk to the floor. He muffles his screams long enough to meet my father’s eyes.
“I have no use for a man without hands. Do you understand?”
“Y-y-yes,” he breathes.
Kalligan dries his cutlass on Praxer’s shirtsleeve as he surveys the crowd. His eyes land on me. In the beat of a second his right brow lifts slightly. I nod.
“We leave for the Isla de Canta in one month’s time,” he says to the room. “Let’s hope you fools can keep your limbs in the meantime. No more mistakes.”
Praxer whines as he rocks back and forth, holding his wrist just above where his left hand was moments earlier.
Kalligan steps over him on his way back toward the door.
***
“Hello, Father,” I say when I’ve caught up to him. ’Tis no easy feat since his legs outdistance mine considerably. It’s a shame Icouldn’t have inherited a bit more of his height. He towers over me by more than a foot. There isn’t a single man I know who doesn’t stand in his shadow.
“Your voyage was successful.” He says it as fact, not as a question.
“Aye, sir. The sack of filth, Vordan, has been transported to the dungeons.”
“And the map?”
I cease walking, and he does the same, facing me. With a tightened fist, I pull the map necklace from my pocket.
His foul mood dispels instantly as he takes it in his hands. “You are the only one I can trust to do things right.” One large hand slaps me on the back, and I warm at the sign of affection. It is a big one from him and so rare. “We’ll celebrate later tonight. Have one of the cooks send up a 1656, Wenoa stock.” Ah, that’s a good year. “Have you questioned Vordan yet?”
A pause.
I can’t tell him what Vordan’s told me. Even if I don’t believe it. Which of course I don’t. There’s no reason to even mention it.
Careful to keep my voice normal, I say, “I have. He sang like a bird. I have a list of names of all the men in our ranks who secretly work for Vordan.”
Father watches me carefully. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
