“Well?” the Mouser said peremptorily.
“Your pardon, Captain Mouser,” the other replied, “but you asked me to keep particular watch on the stowage of cargo, since I was the only one who had done any long voyaging on Seahawk before this faring, and knew her behavior in different weathers. So I believe that I should report to you that there is a chest of fabrics—you know the one, I think—missing from the fore steerside storage. Its lashings lie all about, both those which roped it shut and those which tied it securely in place.”
(Ah-ha, the Mouser thought, he’s guilty too and seeks to cover it by making swift report, however late. Never trust a bland expression. The lascivious villain!)
With his lips he said, “Ah yes, the missing chest—we were just speaking of it. When do you suppose it became so?—I mean missing. In ‘Brulsk?”
Skor shook his head. “I saw to its lashing myself—and noted it still tied fast to the side as my eyes closed in sleep a league outside that port. I’m sure it’s still on Seahawk.”
(He admits it, the effrontrous rogue! the Mouser thought. I wonder he doesn’t accuse Mikkidu of stealing it. Perhaps there’s a little honor left ‘mongst thieves and berserks.)
Meanwhile the Mouser said, “Unless it has been dropped overboard—that is a distinct possibility, do you not think? Or mayhap we were boarded last night by soundless and invisible pirates while you both snored, who raped the chest away and nothing else. Or perchance a crafty and shipwise octopus, desirous of going richly clad and with arms skillful at tying and untying knots——”
He broke off when he noted that both tall Skor and short Mikkidu were peering wide-eyed beyond him. He turned on his stool. A little more of Ississi showed above the blanket—to wit, a small patch of pale forehead and one large green silver-lashed eye peering unwinking through her long silvery hair.
He turned back very deliberately and, after a sharp “Well?” to get their attention, asked in his blandest voice, “Whatever are you looking at so engrossedly?”
“Uh—nothing at all,” Mikkidu stammered, while Skor only shifted gaze to look at the Mouser steadily.
“Nothing at all?” the Mouser questioned. “You don’t perhaps see the chest somewhere in this cabin? Or perceive some clue to its present disposition?”
Mikkidu shook his head, while after a moment Skor shrugged, eyeing the Mouser strangely.
“Well, gentlemen,” the Mouser said cheerily, “that sums it up. The chest must be aboard this ship, as you both say. So hunt for it! Scour Seahawk high and low—a chest that large can’t be hid in a seaman’s bag. And use your eyes, both of you!” He thumped the shrouded box once more for good measure. “And now—dismiss!”
(They both know all about it, I’ll be bound. The deceiving dogs! the Mouser thought. And yet … I am not altogether satisfied of that.)
.5.
When they were gone (after several hesitant, uncertain backward glances), the Mouser stepped back to the bunk and, planting his hands to either side of the girl, stared down at her green eye, supporting himself on stiff arms. She rocked her head up and down a little and to either side, and so worked her entire face free of the blanket and her eyes of the silken hair veiling them and stared up at him expectantly.
He put on an inquiring look and flirted his head toward the hatchway through which the men had departed, then directed the same look more particularly at her. It was strange, he mused, how he avoided speaking to her whenever he could except with pointings and gestured commands. Perhaps it was that the essence of power lay in getting your wishes gratified without ever having to speak them out, to put another through all his paces in utter silence, so that no god might overhear and know. Yes, that was part of it at least.
He formed with his lips and barely breathed the question, “How did you really come aboard Seahawk?”
Her eyes widened and after a while her peach-down lips began to move, but he had to turn his head and lower it until they moistly and silkily brushed his best ear as they enunciated, before he could clearly hear what she was saying—in the same Low Lankhmarese as he and Mikkidu and Skor had spoken, but with a delicious lisping accent that was all little hisses and gasps and warblings. He recalled how her scent had seemed all sex in the chest, but now infinitely flowery, dainty, and innocent.
“I was a princess and lived with the prince Mordroog, my brother, in a far country where it was always spring,” she began. “There a watery influence filtered all harshness from the sun’s beams, so that he shone no more bright than the silvery moon, and winter’s rages and summer’s droughts were tamed, and the roaring winds moderated to eternal balmy breezes, and even fire was cool—in that far country.”
Every whore tells the same tale, the Mouser thought. They were all princesses before they took to the trade. Yet he listened on.
“We had golden treasure beyond all dreaming,” she continued, “unicorns that flew and kittens that flowed were my pets, and we were served by nimble companies of silent servitors and guarded by soft-voiced monsters—great Slasher and vasty All-Gripper, and Deep Rusher, who was greatest of all.
“But then came ill times. One night while our guardians slept, our treasure was stolen away and our realm became lonely, farther off and more secret still. My brother and I went searching for our treasure and for allies, and in that search I was raped away by bold scoundrels and taken to vile, vile ‘Brulsk, where I came to know all the evil there is under the hateful sun.”
This too is a familiar part of each harlot’s story, the Mouser told himself, the raping away, the loss of innocence, instruction in every vice. Yet he went on listening to her ticklesome whispering.
“But I knew that one day that one would come who would be king over me and carry me back to my realm and dwell with me in power and silvery glory, our treasures being restored. And then you came.”
Ah, now the personal appeal, the Mouser thought. Very familiar indeed. Still, let’s hear her out. I like her tongue in my ear. It’s like being a flower and having a bee suck your nectar.
“I went to your ship each day and stared at you. I could do naught else at all, however I tried. And you would never look at me for long, and yet I knew that our paths lay together. I knew you were a masterful man and that you’d visit upon me rigors and inflictions besides which those I’d suffered in dreadful ‘Brulsk would be nothing, and yet I could not turn aside for an instant, or take my eyes away from you and your dark ship. And when it was clear you would not notice me, or act upon your true feelings, or any of your men provide a means for me to follow you, I stole aboard unseen while they were all stowing and lashing and you were commanding them.”
(Lies, lies, all lies, the Mouser thought—and continued to listen.)
“I managed to conceal myself by moving about amongst the cargo. But when at last you’d sailed from harbor and your men slept, I grew cold, the deck was hard, I suffered keenly. And yet I dared not seek your cabin yet, or otherwise disclose myself, for fear you would put back to ‘Brulsk to put me off. So I gradually freed of its lashings a chest of fabrics I’d marked, working and working like a mouse or shrew—the knots were hard, but my fingers are clever and nimble, and strong whenever the need is—until I could creep inside and slumber warm and soft. And then you came for me, and here I am.”
The Mouser turned his head and looked down into her large green eyes, across which golden gleams moved rhythmically with the lamp’s measured swinging. Then he briefly pressed a finger across her soft lips and drew down the blanket until her ribbon-fettered ankle was revealed and he admired her beautiful small body. It was well, he told himself, for a man to have always a beautiful young woman close by him—like a beautiful cat, yes, a young cat, independent but with kitten ways still. It was well when such a one talked, speaking lies much as any cat would (‘Twas crystal clear she must have had help getting aboard—Skor and Mikkidu both, likely enough), but best not to talk to her too much, and wisest to keep her well bound. You could trust folk when they were secured—indeed, trussed!—and not otherwise, no, not at all. And that was the essence of power—binding all others, binding all else! Keeping his eyes hypnotically upon hers, he reached across her for the loose hanks of black ribbon. It would be well to fetter her three other limbs to foot and head of bunk, not tightly, yet not so loosely that she could reach either wrist with other hand or with her pearly teeth—so he could take a turn on deck, confident that she’d be here when he returned.