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‘ WHY DIDN ’ T YOU COME TO BLENRADEN WHEN YOU WERE offering out free piracy to gutter-waifs?’ said Kissen to Lessa, dropping the unconscious Sallath to the floor. ‘We could have met a lot sooner.’

‘I was presumed dead in Middren, remember?’ Lessa replied.

Kissen reached down and undid her trews at her knees.

The pirates hadn’t noticed that her leg had changed, the hard lump of wood and leather replaced by plates of briddite, finely wired together around the strong core to give it shape and protection.

She unclipped the footpiece from the leg, and took both out of the manacle, freeing herself.

‘I thought you had a lock pick,’ said Lessa.

‘This is easier,’ said Kissen. ‘And funnier.’

She then lifted her shin-plate and took out some of the spare items Yatho had brought with her to the dinner table and temporarily attached to the inside.

Her sister always had something to fiddle with, and the long pieces of wire she’d had in her bag along with hammers, bolts, pliers and all the pieces of Kissen’s leg, made passable lock picks.

These, Kissen gave to Lessa, reattaching her foot with her right hand while Lessa came over to undo her left manacle.

She made quick work of it, and the lock was soon free.

Sallath was already coming around, so Kissen reached through the bars and dragged him upright against them before he could put a hand on his sword. She wrapped her unchained arm around his neck and put her other hand on his mouth as he groaned back to awareness.

‘Are you going to be quiet and tell us what the plan is?’ said Kissen into his ear as Lessa worked on her own manacles, her feet first.

He struggled, and she squeezed his throat till he choked. His face went red, he stopped resisting. Kissen loosened her hand so he could speak.

‘Meeting the Restish beyond the harbour,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Advisor Mirim and Efana wanted to kill her themselves so they could ensure it was done. It was Aleda, she convinced us. Please don’t kill me.’

‘I don’t kill people,’ Kissen muttered, knowing it was a lie.

‘You should,’ said Lessa, one foot free, working on the other. ‘You will.’

Sallath’s body tensed to yell, and Kissen put her hand back over his mouth, tightening her grip on his neck again.

Tighter, tighter, Kissen squeezed, as his face went red, his lips blue.

Then he went limp, his head flopping down, and she dropped him.

They didn’t have long. Kissen could hear the shouts from the harbour, but none of alarm.

It was likely they had already passed the walls of the fortress, and other early risers were beginning their day, or ending their night.

‘Where’s the trigger for this escape?’ said Kissen, grabbing Sallath’s sword and pulling it through the bars. The man didn’t move, and Kissen hoped she had not, in fact, killed him.

‘Third board from the left wall,’ said Lessa.

With a click, her other foot was free. She held out her hand for the sword, and Kissen found herself hesitating for a moment.

So demanding. Lessa was locked on her own ship, betrayed by her own crew, yet the woman still seemed to have no flicker of doubt in her.

It was enthralling. It was frightening. What did she want with it?

To stab Sallath and finish Kissen’s job?

‘Honestly, nobles are more cunning than thieves,’ said Kissen, handing the blade over.

‘I have been both,’ said Lessa. With a stab and tug of the blade, she hacked through her skirts, tearing them from waist to hem so she would have freedom of movement when this inevitably came to a fight.

She cast a crooked grin at Kissen, before putting the sword down and grabbing the pick once more.

‘So, I am the worst of the lot of them.’

Noble, thief, rebel, commander. She had more titles than the baker-knight.

Even more than the king. Kissen had only ever been two things: a girl who wanted to kill gods and a girl who did.

She fingered her way along the boards by the left wall, high up in the dark.

One was slightly lighter than the others, but with no other clear markings.

Kissen pressed it upwards, as Lessa had told her in the night market.

It moved, and she slid it to the right, revealing a code mechanism, a twisting spiral of symbols arranged in letters.

‘The password is “Persevere”,’ said Lessa.

Kissen looked at the codex, then back down towards the lady. ‘Did you think I was being cute when I said I can’t read?’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Both?’

Lessa scoffed, finishing her last chain and leaping to her feet, passing Kissen the lock pick so she could deal with her remaining manacles.

Granted, Kissen had used a pick more than once in her life, but dexterity wasn’t her forte, given scar tissue and the occasional tremor. Luckily, these weren’t the finest padlocks. Still, it was a dance with the dark, lifting bolts, as Lessa quickly turned the dials on the codex to match her word.

‘You sure your captain doesn’t know about this?’ asked Kissen, tongue on her gold tooth.

‘I never told him,’ said Lessa. ‘Commander Samin had it built and advised me to hold my tongue. I was a very young woman in a big sea, with a fine vessel. In honesty, I’m surprised he didn’t try this over a decade ago.’

‘Why didn’t he?’

‘Perhaps because I cut out the tongue of the first person who tried, and then had “traitor” tattooed across her throat.’

Kissen paused in her picking. She was no stranger to mutilation. But Lessa said it so matter-of-factly. Had she just pushed the horror of it so deep that she didn’t see it any more?

‘That’s … fucked,’ she said, and Lessa nodded.

‘All things have a cost,’ she said. ‘No one lives long with faith alone to feed them.’

Kissen fiddled with the pick, wiggling the bolts up, gently, tap , tap . ‘You’re not wrong there.’

The lock clicked, and Kissen’s left foot was free.

Lessa stood back from the dials, as a catch in the wall shifted with a small clunk.

No time to finish the last manacle on her wrist; she could hear more activity above them now, the stamping of feet.

Instead, Kissen bundled it around her hand, covering her knuckles. Better a weapon than a problem.

Lessa was listening at the boards of the wall. She held out a hand to Kissen. Wait.

A shuffling of feet, the creak of a barrel, and chatter from the galley. Kissen realised they would be performing the ritual again, the hipgin, the citrus, the request of blessing for a new journey.

The footsteps passed, and Lessa put her fingers to the door and heaved. It didn’t move easily. Kissen came to help her and they dragged it in one squeaking shift, before it stopped, just wide enough for Kissen to squeeze through.

There was someone there. Glib: the long-limbed, skinny galley assistant.

He had a half-open wrap of cloth in his hand, and pink pastry carefully preserved inside it that he must have bought from the market.

Expensive, precious. He would have smuggled it down here to eat it without being seen.

So silently that Lessa hadn’t heard him.

He blinked as he saw them, then his chest swelled as he took a deep breath.

‘Don’t—’ Kissen tried, but Lessa darted through the gap with Sallath’s sword in her hand.

Her strike was sure and true and went straight through Glib’s throat.

She drew out the blade, and a rush of air came out with a spurt of blood that spattered her fine dress.

Glib collapsed to the floor, crushing his sweet, blood still pumping.

‘You didn’t know—’ Kissen began with a hiss, trying to squeeze her decidedly broader frame through the narrow gap.

‘If he were to sing my praises, did he need so much breath?’ Lessa looked back at her then, spattered, brutal and magnificent. ‘I will not risk my life, my country and my daughter on mercy.’

Kissen made it through; a shelf and rack of heavy cooking implements had stopped the secret door opening fully. ‘You could have knocked him cold.’

Lessa clicked her tongue. ‘Honestly, if you’d rather let me die than get your hands dirty then you should have run when they gave you the chance.’

Kissen glowered. As a child, she had just tried to find someone in the world not to hate.

Yatho, Telle, others who believed in gods of small things, hopeful things, like the gods of makers, gods of ovens, or even greater gods of safe haven and midwifing.

She had hated gods, but wanted to love the people who loved them.

‘I won’t let you die, lady,’ she said. ‘I promised Inara.’

Lessa’s mouth tightened, then she nodded.

They took as many knives as they could find: shell shuckers, cleavers, small filleting blades.

The chef, it seemed, collected them from trips around the Trade Sea.

They would be shit for throwing, unbalanced, half-blunted, but enough to sting.

Lessa kept the sword, and Kissen suspected she would need it most, so she grabbed a long bread shovel from the oven, a flat pan at the end of a long stave.

It would do, for balance, if not to fend off a few strikes.

They ghosted up the ladders quietly, reaching the crew’s quarters.

All was quiet below, though the deck above them was heaving with sound.

Drumming and dancing, but also ropes landing on deck, cries of orders, of urgency.

Kissen realised she could no longer hear clearly the sounds of the Long Harbour.

A heavy thud and scraping shook the hull , and Lessa hissed through her teeth as if the sound of wood splintering caused her physical pain.

Another ship docking, she signed. Badly. And early.

They must have worried they would let you go.

Just then, someone stirred in the crew quarters.

Kissen reached for her knife as Rhiyande sat up in one of the hammocks, disturbed either by the crack of wood or Lessa’s noise.

There were dark bruises under her eyes that were more than from lack of sleep.

Like Lessa, she had blood crusting under her nose.

She turned, saw them. Her eyes widened. Lessa pulled a knife, flipping it around to throw, but—

Kissen grabbed Lessa’s arm before she killed again. Wait, she signed with one hand, not daring to speak. Rhiyande was one of the few to show pity. And, unlike Glib, she had not drawn in a breath.

The three of them stared at each other, and after a long moment, Rhiyande lifted her hands and signed. I’m sorry, she said. They’re boarding already.

There was no way out of this without blood. They could not wait for Bahba to come and rescue Lessa and cry war. She was not a hostage, she was being led to her death. If the Restish were aboard, it was coming sooner than they had hoped.

Maybe I can help, said Rhiyande. She touched her nose, wincing. Aleda didn’t like it when I said we should let you loose.

Lessa relaxed slightly, and Kissen released her arm.

Why? said the lady. Why aid us when you helped put me here?

Rhiyande flushed, looking at Kissen beseechingly, then shrugged. I’d never tasted ice before.

If they’re already here, we’re fucked, signed Kissen, and Lessa bit her lip, looking up. It had taken so long for Sallath to get close enough for them to catch him. What if they had Inara already? Did they need to find another way? Hide, maybe, till dark. Pretend they had already fled?

The indecision held them just a moment too long. A shadow appeared above, a pair of feet.

‘Well …’ It was Aleda, ‘I was just coming to fetch you, my lady.’ Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she stood silhouetted against the dark stain of the sky. ‘You must be blessed by six gods and fucked by seven.’