“Find out for me while I’m speaking with the seneschal. And lend your blade to finishing things off. Sir Montague will keep watch.”

They were soon at the butchering hut, where the former Suncoat stood defending the door. “My lady. I have the seneschal.”

“I heard. Thank you, Sir Montague.” The man was far too well-mannered and courtly to be in a place like this, serving that disgusting whale. There were many men like that here, Amara had come to see. Disillusionment had brought them here, and shame had kept them from leaving. But Amara Daecar was giving them a way out. And for that she had their loyalty. “I take it he is unarmed?”

“Unarmed, yes. Unharmed, no.” A smile graced the lips of Sir Montague Shaw. “He had a little dagger tucked up his right arm sleeve, and another on his leg. I took them both off him…with a little force, I confess.” He paused, glancing at the door behind him. “He claims he helped in the venture tonight, my lady. That he was himself a part of the plot.” A frown formed on his brow. “Is that true?”

“No. It is a bare-faced lie. I will get to the bottom of this, Sir Montague.”

“I am sure you will, Lady Daecar.” Sir Montague Shaw opened the door for her to pass, and she stepped inside. The door was left ajar behind her.

The interior was dim, the smell unpleasant. Dim torches burned on the plank wood walls to either side of a large, bloody table, scarred with cuts from the butcher’s blade and lacquered in long years of fish guts and gore. At the far end, hooks hung down from the ceiling on lengths of chain, swaying ominously. One bore a small shark, another a large seal, which Amara supposed was fitting. There were buckets filled with entrails and old mops propped up against one wall. Pails of chum for the shark-catchers sat near the door. Amara looked at those and smiled. “You’d make good chum, don’t you think, seneschal?”

The slimy little man was standing in one corner, half in shadow, a bruise already ripening on his cheek and about his left eye. There appeared to be some rips and tears on his clothing, though with that absurd, leafy garb he wore, it wasn’t so easy to tell. “I would…rather not find out,” he said, trying to raise that unctuous little smile of his. His eyes were hooded, shoulders tight. “You don’t mean to…”

“Kill you?”

He swallowed. “I have only ever been a servant, my lady. I follow who I must, to survive.”

“And you will follow me now? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

He nodded nervously. “I have been doing so for some time, my lady. I…I tried to tell Sir Montague, but he wouldn’t believe me. I have been helping you, whether you know it or not.”

She peered at him, curious. “How have you been helping me, pray tell?”

“The…the schedule, my lady. I set it...so that you would have your own allies posted at the…”

“Don’t lie to me, seneschal.”

“I am not lying, my lady. I tell you true, I set the schedule tonight to aid you. I had heard…whisperings of your plans. For days I have come to suspect something would happen, and for days I said nothing to the Great One. I allied myself to your cause…from the shadows, if you will. I had to protect myself as well, in case…”

“In case it all went wrong.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then how do you explain Colossus?”

He shook his head at once. “That was not my doing. Wilcock fell ill at the last moment, and Colossus took his place without my knowledge. You must see, my lady. Everything was perfectly laid out for you tonight. You cannot think that to be a coincidence, or mere chance.”

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot think.”

He quelled, nodding fearfully, but perhaps there was some truth to what he was saying. She puzzled on that for a moment, though in the end it did not matter. They had won the day regardless, and whether the seneschal was lying or not did not make a blind bit of difference. It was only his trust she needed now.

“The Great One is dead,” she said, putting the matter aside. “His loyalists have been slain, and the rest will bend the knee. I am told that several longships managed to get away. No doubt some of the occupants of these ships will flee to other islands, and when the pirate lords discover that the Blubber King has fondled his last serving maid they will seek to take advantage. You know these men, seneschal. You know these so-called Lords of the Lake. You say you wish to serve me? Well, I will give you that chance.”

He tried not to look too elated. “I…yes, of course. Whatever you need, Lady Daecar.”

“My need is simple. Parley with these pirates. Tell them they will not come to harm for former crimes should they submit to the rule of the crown. Inform them that the king’s soldiers will come here to take control of these islands. That they will be opened for the sanctuary of refugees. If these pirate lords welcome such terms, they will be allowed to keep their wealth, and some measure of influence here as well. If not, they will be killed.” She took a pause, to make sure he understood. “What say you, seneschal?”

“I say…I say I am your humble servant, my lady. I say I am yours to command.” He crept from the pool of shadow in which he’d been cowering and went down to his knees before her. She gave him the back of her hand to kiss. Then he rose, lank hair bobbing on his shoulders. “I will see it done.”

“Good.” She turned to leave.

He went to follow.

“No,” she said, spinning back to face him. “You’ll stay here for the time being, seneschal. To think things over.”

“I…my lady, I don’t need to think things over. I am your servant, your humble servant…”

Who deserves to squirm a little longer, she thought, stepping out through the door. “Bar it shut,” she told Sir Montague. “If he makes a squeak of complaint, toss a bucket of fish guts over him. That ought to keep him quiet.”

The man smiled. “Gladly, my lady.”

The fighting was wilting like a weed in winter, done or thereabouts. Amara paced back along the beach until she reached the captain. “Did you tell them what I asked?”

“Aye. Will the seneschal yield?”

“Aye,” she said, mimicking him.

He grinned. “Well, that’s that then. Seems the lake’s turning a bit rough out there, m’lady, so be best to store the oars for the night. We can leave on the morrow, when Matmalia’s in a better mood.”

Matmalia was the Rasal goddess of waves, Amara recalled. “Tomorrow is fine,” she said. “Though the word ‘if’ is not one of my favourites, Captain. I thought you said the weather was set fair tonight?”

“Aye, I thought it would be. But the gods are capricious, aren’t they? Never quite know what they’re doing to do.”

“I suppose not. Though their cruelty is oft something one can count on.” She heard a voice hailing her, and saw Sir Connor striding over. He had not yet had time to dress in his armour, though had taken no further wounds. Thank goodness. Her gloomy household knight had been her rock for a long time now.

He went to a knee. “My lady, the battle is done. All enemy loyalists have been defeated. The rest have thrown down their arms, and are willing to submit to your rule. Shall I gather them to swear you their oaths?”

That seemed like a pointless exercise. Most men would swear an oath one day, only to break it the next. “That won’t be necessary, Sir Connor. Tell me. How fare our men? And stand, please. You’re embarrassing me.”

He did so. Then he said, “Sir Hockney has taken a wound to his thigh, but it does not seem serious. Sir Penrose, Carly, Jovyn are all well, as is Sir Talmer and Ben Barrett. Sir Ryger has taken command of the palace, my lady, the larders at the rear, and the way down into the underground. We should have some warning if anyone comes up from that way. And there are some others who wish to join us when we leave. They are prepared to swear you their swords.”

Amara nodded. She would have time for that later. But first… “His larders, did you say?”

“Yes, my lady. They are plentiful, as you can imagine.”

She did not need to imagine, having watched the Blubber King stuffing his face for weeks on end. “What happens after a battle, Sir Connor?” she asked the knight.

He cocked a brow. “Well, typically the dead are gathered and counted, funerals pyres built, graves dug, rites spoken, wounds sewn…”

That wasn’t what she was getting at. “A feast, Sir Connor. After battle comes the feast.” She smiled, looking at the captain, who smiled back, and the scores of men and women and children huddled about the shore. His children, she thought. And the lot of them, half-starved.

She turned back to Sir Connor Crawfield. “Tonight we feast,” she said.

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