“I am Lady Nettel,” she introduced herself. “And you are Alias of the Magic Arm,” the noblewoman stated as she regarded Alias through a set of lenses mounted on an ebony rod.
Alias, unused to the description, did not reply immediately.
“Alias the Sell-Sword. Ruskettle’s friend. Jamal’s cheap hero. Dhostar’s young champion. Stop me if I mention one you prefer,” Lady Nettel requested with a grin.
“Just Alias,” the swordswoman replied and bowed formally at the waist. “I’m pleased to meet you, Lady Nettel. Olive speaks very highly of you.”
“As she does of you,” Lady Nettel answered. “I am very grateful for the assistance you rendered to her protecting my wine. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome,” Alias replied. “I only wish it had ended better than it did.”
“Yes,” Lady Nettel agreed. “Please, allow me to present my granddaughter and heir, Thistle.”
Thistle Thalavar, who had been staring wide-eyed at Alias, lowered her eyes and curtsied. She was dressed rather more elaborately than her grandmother, in a white gown trimmed with miles of pink ribbon. Her yellow hair was elaborately plaited all about her head and decorated with tiny flowers. She wore a diamond necklace that must have been an heirloom, since it was far too expensive for so young a woman.
“You are the talk of my household,” Lady Nettel announced, “with the halflings hailing you as Ruskettle’s warrior companion, the servants raving about your street theater antics, and the youngsters speculating about you and Victor.”
Alias smiled politely, hoping she would not blush, but Thistle looked horrified. “Grandmama!” she said after a gasp.
Grandmama held up a hand, and Thistle hushed. “Young people are always gossiping, trying to figure out where everyone around them fits into society. Such a waste of time.”
“Because the people themselves don’t even know where they fit in?” Alias asked.
Lady Nettel smiled and shook her head. “Because we weren’t meant to fit into society. We must be what we are, and let society fit around us. That is how I have always lived my life. And you?”
“That’s always been my choice,” Alias agreed.
“Like your tattoo?” Thistle asked, her words starting to spill over each other. “You chose that. Did it hurt? Do you regret it?”
“Thistle,” Lady Nettel spoke in a warning tone.
“How else will I know?” Thistle insisted.
Lady Nettel sighed. “Please excuse her. We had an argument that had nothing to do with you.”
“That’s all right,” Alias said. She turned to Thistle. “My tattoo was not really my choice. Someone branded me when I was a captive. It didn’t hurt, because I was unconscious at the time. It’s not a regular tattoo, though, but magical. I cannot regret it, since I had no choice in its existence, but it can be very tiresome. It is not something one can remove like a dress or jewelry. It is always there, the same design, the same color. Once I hated it, but no longer. It reminds me of a special time in my life and of the bonds I share with my brother and my sisters and with my father.”
“I see,” Thistle said, more thoughtful. “Thank you for telling me.”
Lady Nettel raised her glass to someone behind Alias. A moment later, Alias felt a hand on her shoulder as Victor Dhostar took a position beside her.
“Lady Nettel,” Victor greeted the elderly noblewoman, adding a deep bow. He winked at Thistle and asked, “How are you, Dervish?”
Thistle colored deeply at the nickname and tried unsuccessfully to appear too haughty to notice the young Dhostar.
Lady Nettel chuckled. “Congratulations on your new vessel, Lord Victor,” she said. “It hasn’t sunk yet under the weight of Westgate’s pride. It must be well-constructed.”
“I’ll pass your compliments on to father,” Victor answered.
“Hah!” Lady Nettel replied. “If those compliments belong to anyone, they’re yours. For all his meddling, Luer hasn’t peeked in a shipyard for six years. Can’t take the dust. This is your victory, young man, and everyone knows it.”
Victor bowed his head wordlessly.
“Well, I’ll let you steal away with your guest,” Lady Nettel said. “I’m sure she’s not here to entertain me.” With that, she moved off with Thistle, followed by a wake of other guests all vying for the Thalavar matriarch’s attention.
Alias offered Victor some cheese from her plate. The ship was rounding the harbor entrance now, and everything on the ship cast two shadows, one from the stern light, the other from the lighthouse. Looking across to the Westlight plaza, Alias saw a group of people scurrying around in the twilight, setting up some sort of display on the northern shore of the peninsula.
“What’s going on out there?” she asked Victor.
“Ah, well, that’s a surprise. You’ll just have to wait and see,” the nobleman said.
Alias nodded. “I shouldn’t ask, but how did your business go with young Urdo?” the swordswoman queried.
Victor grinned conspiratorially. “We discussed how easy it was to make an apology. Taking my cue from my father, who apologized for his arrest, I thought I might just apologize in advance in case Haztor happens to fall overboard and no one notices. Should he falter in his attempt to swim ashore or, gods forbid, should the quelzarn happen to devour him, I assured him that my apologies to his family would be profuse if not sincere.”
“There isn’t really a quelzarn, is there?” Alias asked, knowing that such giant sea serpents were reputed to be very rare.
“Of course there is,” Victor insisted. “What do you think eats all the garbage tossed into the bay?”
Alias gave the nobleman a suspicious look. “Have you ever seen this quelzarn?” she demanded.
“Many times,” he replied, then added, “though only on foggy nights, when I’m alone, without, alas, any witnesses to back up my story.”
Alias laughed. “So where is Haztor now?” she asked.
Victor looked around the deck, then shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” he answered, raising his eyebrows theatrically.
“Victor, you wouldn’t—” Alias looked around the deck uncertainly.
The young nobleman chuckled. “He’s over there, hugging the mainmast. I don’t imagine he’ll go anywhere near the rails this evening. He’s not a strong swimmer.”
Alias looked in the direction Victor had nodded. Haztor Urdo was surrounded by several young men and women who chatted with him amicably, but he was indeed keeping the mainmast at his back.
“I haven’t seen Ssentar Urdo,” Alias noted. “Wasn’t he invited?”
“Each noble house is invited, and each sends at least one representative so the rest of the houses cannot gossip freely about it. Ssentar Urdo, however, is prey to seasickness. Ordinarily Ssentar would send his oldest son, Mardon, and Mardon’s wife. By sending Haztor in his stead, his father is showing Haztor his support. Haztor, despite the scandal of being arrested as a Night Mask, will remain a power. Consequently, sycophants will flock about him, seizing this opportunity to offer their support. Such people are liable to snub you, given a chance. They aren’t worth worrying about.”
“Considering the company I’m in, I doubt I should notice them,” Alias replied. She set aside her empty plate and glass. “Shall we continue our tour?”
Victor smiled, took her arm, and steered her aft. “The masts and keel,” he explained, “were fashioned from redwood logged in the far north, around Hartsvale, land of giants and giant trees.”
“And where do you get the oarsmen?” Alias asked, “Sentenced criminals?”
“Sometimes,” responded Victor. “This particular crew, however, is made up of shareholders.”
“Shareholders?”
Victor nodded, “Of course. You didn’t think we’d risk all the heads of Westgate in a boat with a crew of criminals, did you? People work better when they have a stake in the outcome. In this case, fight better and row better. They get a small portion of the profits this ship will make for House Dhostar. Any who agreed to serve for this frivolous maiden voyage gets a double share of the first venture. We have no trouble finding rowers.”