“So Xanka is dead,” said the older woman. She folded her long fingers together. “The Dragonqueen will have his black soul.”

Tol did not doubt that. “I am Tolandruth of Juramona,” he said.

She bowed her head, sunlight playing across her smooth hair. “I am Dralie. This is Inika. We are-were-Xanka’s consorts.”

“How did he die?” asked Inika.

“He fought hard,” Tol replied generously.

Inika’s dark brows lifted. “Really? I’m surprised. He was a terrible coward.”

Dralie took Tol’s hand and led him past the couches. A table was set with heavy golden dishes, and laden with grilled squab, roast beef, four kinds of fish, and a tall amphora of wine. This was supposed to be Xanka’s victory meal. A few steps further on, by the wide stern windows, sat an oblong box of brass and leather. Steam rose from the water it contained. s “What’s that?” Tol asked.

“The captain ordered us to prepare his bath. It was a hot morning and he expected to work up a sweat.”

Tol was fascinated. As a child on the farm and a warlord of Ergoth, he bathed by pouring buckets of water over his head. During the cold Daltigoth winters, the water would be warmed, but he’d never been in a bathtub in his life.

Dralie pulled out a chair for him. “Eat, master.”

Hungry, he complied, but told her, “Don’t call me that. I’m not your master.”

When the women tried to feed him, he put a stop to that as well. It was no wonder Xanka had grown soft. Being waited on hand and foot was no life for an honorable man.

While he ate, Inika played a sweetly melancholy air on a reed flute, and Dralie sang. She had a rich, mature voice. When she finished, Tol asked the women how they had come to be here.

Inika came from a village on the north coast of the empire. It had been raided by a squadron of Xanka’s ships. The pirates carried off two things: women and cattle. She was kept by the captain of the galley Terror until she caught Xanka’s eye. She’d been with him a year.

Tol apologized, saying the empire should have protected her. She shrugged. “Myduties here were not too great. I eat well, and I have a roof over my head.”

“Well, you’re free now. When we reach Thorngoth, you can go ashore with my comrades and me.”

Inika said nothing, merely turned her dark eyes to Dralie.

The older woman had been born in Tarsis and apprenticed to the temple of Mishas as a priestess and healer. On a voyage to Hylo to found a new sanctuary to the goddess, her ship was taken by Xanka’s fleet. He wasn’t King of the Sea then, just leader of a flotilla of six ships. She healed the wounds he’d received in battle, and not long after became his consort.

She’d recounted her story calmly but now looked out the windows at the galley’s foaming wake, her face shadowed. “That was seventeen years ago.”

For the first time Tol felt a twinge of regret for what had happened. Xanka was a murderous bandit who deserved to be shortened by a head, but Dralie seemed to care for him. He began to apologize for her loss.

Dralie turned and looked at him as though he’d grown a second head. Then she spoke, and he finally understood.

“One who was a disciple of the goddess should not feel joy at the passing of a fellow being,” she said.

Her cold, even tone sent a chill down his spine. Finished with his meal, Tol got up to go. Inika caught his arm.

“Stay,” she said, “else the water will grow cold.”

“I don’t need-”

“You bear the dust of a long journey, my lord,” Dralie said. “It is your right to take your ease.”

They began undressing him. Tol resisted only half-heartedly. He was bruised, battered, and dirty. The two women disrobed him with detached efficiency and ushered him into the bath. It had lost some of its heat but was still pleasantly warm. Dralie poured scented oil into the water while Inika took up a soft brush and applied it to Tol’s back.

The cabin door opened and Kiya entered. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene.

“I wondered what kept you in here so long!” she said.

The others peered in around her, and Miya uttered a shocked oath.

“Who are these louts?” asked Dralie. “My wives,” Tol said.

“Who are these hussies?” demanded Miya. Tol considered carefully. “Xanka’s treasures.”

With Faerlac’s help, Tol summoned the masters of every ship in the Blood Fleet to Thunderer that night for a council. Quite an assortment of characters crowded the afterdeck of the galley. Gray-bearded salts with lined faces rubbed elbows with dashing youths in extravagant costumes of sashes, plumes, and kilts.

Tol’s party had lost not only their horses, but all their baggage when Blue Gull was sunk, so they raided Xanka’s bountiful wardrobe. Dralie helped find what they wanted and gave advice as necessary on how to wear their choices. After their initially chilly introduction, the Dom-shu sisters and Xanka’s consorts got along well.

They spruced up according to their natures, with Tol settling for a reasonably sober jerkin of wine-colored leather, an Ergothian helmet, and a white mantle, and Miya going all-out in a robe of emerald green silk, topped by a turban in the North Seas fashion. Tol was pleased the gaudy clothing cheered her. She’d been fond of Pitch and had been grieving for the loss of her horse.

It was night, and the galley rode the gentle swells of the gulf. Lanterns lined the rail. The mob of pirate captains talked among themselves until Tol appeared on the sterncastle above them. He was flanked by his two men, Faerlac, the Dom-shu, Dralie, and Inika. A hush fell over the crowd.

“Men of the Blood Fleet! I am Tolandruth of Juramona, General of the Army of the North, Champion of the Regent of Ergoth, and Rider of the Great Horde!” He hoped the list of titles would give weight to his words. “By right of combat, I have become master of this fleet. If anyone cares to dispute my claim, let him do so now!”

The pirates eyed each other, muttering. Finally, a veteran captain with black hair and the features of a half-elf said, “What is your will, my lord?”

Tol folded his arms. “I intend to take the fleet to Thorngoth.”

That set off a rumble of surprised conversation. A young captain with a potbelly and a shaven pate yelled, “You mean to sack the port?”

“No. The town will not be molested. I will walk ashore and greet the imperial governor.”

More consternation. The pot-bellied captain shouted, “The garrison will attack us without mercy!”

“Not if we fly the flag of Ergoth.”

Silence fell. Tol let it stretch for a few moments, then explained.

“For years you have preyed upon the ships of every nation with skill and success.” Brutal skill and ugly success, he thought, but wisely did not say. “Your number has grown from a handful of independent vessels into a mighty fleet. Now I offer you a chance to become even greater. Submit to the authority of the empire, and I guarantee all of you will receive amnesty.”

Some greeted this offer with harsh laughter. Others did not. The half-elf captain shouted down those around him, then asked, “If we are pardoned, my lord, then what? How do we live?”

“As captains in the Imperial Navy of Ergoth.”

This caused even more harsh laughter followed by wrangling. A few pirates came to blows, and one band of hotheads charged the ladders leading to the sterncastle. Tol’s companions, supported by Faerlac, drew swords and prepared to stand them off. Tol contented himself with glaring fiercely at the charging pirates.

“Stand down!” he barked. “By your own law, I am commander of this fleet!”

His words, backed by a quintet of naked blades, cooled the rebels’ ardor. Grumbling, the attackers backed down.

The bald, pot-bellied captain called out, “What if we don’t want your pardon? Will you force us?”