Chapter Text
The footman opened the carriage door and helped Asami down onto the flagstones and blazing midday sun. She brushed herself down, letting the creases of the journey fall out of her dress. Mako stepped down behind her, uncomfortably hot in his long coat.
“You forgot your parasol.” He offered her the item in question.
“Mako, if you attempt to make me wave around that damn contraption for the five feet between the carriage and the door I will stick it somewhere the sun has never shone.” Asami replied, too quietly for the footman to hear and without letting the fixed smile shrink as much as hair’s breadth. Mako was just as careful not to smile as he took his place at her elbow, tucking the parasol under his arm.
“Very well Miss Sato. Shall we? I understand an invigorating and stimulating afternoon of little sandwiches and cups of tea await you.”
“Oh yes. It promises to be most entertaining.” Asami barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “And I suppose you will secrete yourself in a backroom of the house with a small amount of rum and lose half your wages playing cards again?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. Because you’d be an idiot to play with Marshall, Miss Rei’s man. He always has a deck hidden up his sleeve.”
Mako couldn’t help but scowl.
“I’d have to be a fool to fall for that kind of trickery.”
“You would indeed.” Asami had the strong suspicion Marshall would accidentally walk behind a horse at some point this afternoon. A horse that had a tendency to kick, and leave bruises the shape of knuckles.
The shade was a welcome relief, the house clearly designed to make the most of the sea breeze. Asami bade Mako farewell at the door, bracing herself for the ordeal. The usual array of elder daughters awaited Asami inside, all made up in the very finest of dresses shipped over from the mainland, sipping from china cups and nibbling on dainties that were already being replenished by the household servants, silent people, with downcast eyes who faded into the background because they knew too well what being in the foreground could bring. Asami tried not to show her distaste for such arrangements. She wondered how many hours she would be expected to tolerate these simpering idiots when a voice from behind startled her.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Asami Sato.”
Asami turned on her heel. Things had just taken a turn for the interesting.
“Miska. It has been a while.”
“Far too long, darling.” Miska smiled like a wolf.
“It’s a surprise to see you here. I thought you’d moved on from us poor, unmarried folk.”
“Oh, I have, I have,” But Miska was smiling a little too broadly. “Tahno just needed me out of the house today. Had a spot of bother with his latest shipment.” She lowered her voice, just enough for the entire room to lean forward eagerly to hear it. “It got hit by pirates. And not just any pirates. They’re saying it was the Ravaa’s Revenge.”
That set the cat among the pigeons. Asami didn’t take her eyes off Miska as she took a seat on the empty sofa, patting the cushion beside her as an invitation. Asami sat. She caught a few sensationalised snippets of conversation, rolling her eyes at Miska.
“I hear they leave no survivors!” Miss Rei was eagerly telling the other ladies, and Miska laughed.
“My dear, without survivors where would the stories come from?”
Miss Rei deflated somewhat.
“Besides,” Miska continued. “Our darling Miss Sato is proof enough that they leave survivors.”
Asami could feel the heads swivelling to stare at her. What game was Miska playing?
“Asami! You survived an attack by the Ravaa’s Revenge?”
“Hardly.” Asami took gulp of tea, wetting her throat.
It had been a fine day, sailing wise. The sun was shining, the sea was calm and the wind was in their favour. Asami had been stood by the rail, watching the seabirds keep pace with the boat, when the cry had come out.
“Sail! Portside!”
There was a ship bearing down on them. The captain hurried to the rail, telescope in hand.
“Can you see the colours?” He yelled up to the crow’s nest. The call came back down at once.
“Great white squiggly critter on navy. It’s Ravaa!”
“Then may the spirits have mercy.” The captain lowered his telescope. “I want every scrap of canvas out! We might still be able to outrun her, we have the wind!”
But they didn’t. It was painfully clear to see. Ravaa sailed as if wind and tide had no meaning for her, easily outstripping any vessel Asami had ever seen or heard of. Her father had been roused from his cabin and was busy berating the captain, pleading for him to coax a few more knots from the ship by any means necessary, but they were already at full sail.
“Then we fight!” Hiroshi declared, but Captain Shu shook his head.
“Against another craft, perhaps. But this is Ravaa, sir. Our only hope to get out of this with our lives is to surrender and hope for mercy.”
Hiroshi looked ready to argue, right up until the cannonball shot across their bows.
“That was a warning. They don’t tend to give a second one. I suggest we heed it, sir.”
Hiroshi inclined his head, offering no further objection. Shu gave orders to spill wind and drop anchor, cautioning the crew to lay down any arms they might be carrying as the Ravaa slid alongside. Planks were run out and the pirate crew boarded.
“I’ll never forget them. Any of them. Brigands and cutthroats and villains of all sorts. Like some terrible fantasy. And the captain...the captain was something else.”
Good quality seal leather boots. That was the first thing Asami saw of the captain of the Ravaa’s Revenge. They wore blue, a heavy blue greatcoat, blue trousers. They strode aboard, one hand resting on the sword at their waist, a belt of pistols slung across their chest. The captain was a walking armoury, and all of the Sato crew stepped back in instinctual fear. They all knew the legends. The captain’s expression was unreadable beneath the tricorn hat; the features had been rendered unreadable by war paint, like some tribal savage. The stories said when they killed they used the blood to add to the grey, white and black, and in that moment Asami would have believed it.
“And then they spoke. And I realised all the stories had been wrong.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The captain’s voice boomed out, but it was not the baritone Asami had expected. The figure might be ambiguous under the heavy layers of clothing but the voice was unmistakably female.
“You must be kidding!” One of the women looked utterly scandalised.
“My hand to the spirits,” Asami insisted. “The wolf-headed demon captain is a she, not a he.”
The crew were quick to raid the ship, the captain seizing the manifest and directing her band of thieves as to what to take and what to leave. Asami’s fists were itching as she watched her family’s possessions be carried off onto the other ship. And then one of the pirates approached her. Huge and swarthy, covered in tattoos, and demanded the ring that hung around Asami’s neck. She stepped back, clutching it tight.
“Never.”
“I wasn’t asking, you stupid...”
He grabbed her arm, twisting it away, ripping the chain from around her neck, apparently not even feeling the punches from Asami. He threw her to the deck, but that didn’t stop her. She drew the dagger from its hidden sheath, springing up.
“You bastard! That was my mother’s!”
She nearly got him. Full of rage, unthinking, she nearly got him. But when she stabbed there was a clang of metal on metal. The captain had got between them, catching Asami’s knife on her cleaver of a cutlass. There was no room in Asami’s heart for fear. She didn’t fight as the pirate pushed her knife arm back to her side. She made no attempt to take the weapon.
“Pol?” The captain asked, and Asami didn’t understand until a crewmember stepped into the captain’s field of vision. He gave a terse nod. “Very well then.” She sheathed her blade. “Suma.”
She didn’t have to ask twice. The ring was dropped into her outstretched hand. Asami watched, feeling the sweat beading on her forehead, her heart in her mouth, as the captain produced a handkerchief, carefully polishing the ring. She held it up the light, closing one eye, and nodded to herself.
“Here.” She held it out to Asami who snatched it, as if expecting it to be some kind of trick. The chain was broken so she slipped it into the knife’s sheath instead, to keep it safe and close.
“Why?” Asami asked, before she could stop herself, and the captain shrugged. The movement made the belts of weaponry shift.
“Some things are worth entirely too much to take. I’m a brigand, not a bastard.” She touched her hat, in some mockery of politeness. “Good day, Miss Sato.”
That should have been it. But then the crack of the pistol shot broke the air and Suma went down with a howl of pain, blood running down his leg. Two dozen guns trained on the source of the shot. Hiroshi Sato was clutching the smoking pistol, looking like he might be sick with fear. The captain closed the distance and grabbed it by the barrel, twisting it from his grip. She clubbed him across the face with the pistol butt, first one side, then the other. She tossed it down on the deck, drawing her own loaded firearm and forcing the barrel into his mouth.
“Get Suma back aboard, get him down to the sawbones!” She ordered over her shoulder, but the crew had already taken the initiative, three of them carrying their wounded member across the gangplank. Two more had trained their weapons on Asami, in case she got stab-happy again.
“Mr Sato.”
There was no change in her tone from before. Still personable, still polite. Hiroshi mumbled something, but the gun in his mouth made it unintelligible to Asami’s ears. Not so to the captain.
“I know. He put his hands on your child. But no harm was done, no honour besmirched, and the ring was returned. If anything Suma was the wounded party, even before you shot him; she did try and stab him after all so if you want to play that particular game we can break out the knives and pistols and there’ll be a feast for the shark-squids, and the winners will take all. You can nod if you like, don’t worry, my trigger finger is very steady.”
Hiroshi was not daring to even breathe too deeply.
“I thought so. Mr Sato, let me speak plainly.” She angled the gun slightly up and Hiroshi rose onto his toes, trying not to gag. “You are a plague, sir. On this ocean, on this world. Everything you are offends me to the very core of my soul. Everything you have comes from the sweat and blood of others. I have no reason not to pull this trigger and send your brains splattering over the deck, and in fact many reasons to do exactly that. But...” She sighed heavily. “I do not care to make orphans, especially when they must watch the act. I am too soft-hearted, no?”
She withdrew the pistol, wiping it dry of spittle on Hiroshi’s coat.
“Thank your daughter for your life, Mr Sato. And pray that we never cross paths again. My mercy is such a finite thing.”
The captain had one foot on the gangplank when Asami called out.
“Is it true?”
She stopped, turning back.
“Is it true you were spat out of hell?” Asami demanded.
“You did not!” one listener asked, aghast. “Asami, what were you thinking?!”
“That this was probably my only chance to ask.” Asami replied, straight-faced. Miska tried to cover her snort.
The mask of paint still rendered her expression unreadable, but the silence that stretched between them, that had settled across both crews, spoke volumes.
“No.” The captain said at last, and there was a flash of teeth, a hint of a grin. “Something far worse than that.”
And with that she crossed the plank, calling orders for the ship to go about.
“And that was how I survived the dreaded Ravaa’s Revenge,” Asami concluded, to her astounded audience. She tuned out the responses, the well I nevers and how awfuls!, watching Miska draw her fan and flap it about at herself.
“I think that was rather too much excitement for me,” She announced, to clucks of sympathy. “I think I might go for a lie-down, if that is acceptable?”
The hostess practically tripped over herself to agree.
“Most kind of you. Asami, would you mind..,?”
“Not at all.” Asami got to her feet, offering Miska her arm.
Asami waited until they were in the bedroom, behind a locked door, before she dropped the act.
“You get less subtle by the day, my dear.”
“Can you blame me?” Miska grinned wickedly, dropping onto the bed in a most unladylike fashion. “Stories of dashing pirates, well, I just can’t control myself.”
“I never called her dashing.”
“This time. Oh, and don’t pretend you were enjoying their company downstairs.”
“They’re a bunch of empty-headed...”
“They’re playing the game, Asami, and doing it rather better than you.” Miska replied, uncharacteristically sharply. “You might have a way out of all this that doesn’t involve hitching yourself to the best bet of a bad lot, but the rest of us have got far less to work with.”
Asami dropped her head, a little embarrassed.
“Now come on,” That hungry smile was back. “We have perhaps two hours before the knitting circle begins to worry.”
“Two hours?” Asami sat down beside Miska, “However will we fill the time?”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Miska pushed her back on to the mattress, hiking up her dress to straddle her. “I’m sure I can think of something.”
Asami tried not to moan too loudly, digging her fingernails into Miska’s back.
“Easy,” Miska chided, “I had to fake a headache for a week last time so Tahno didn’t see.”
“Sorry,” Asami panted, not sorry at all. “Maybe if you just...oh yes...”
“If you can’t behave yourself...” Miska teased, withdrawing her fingers ever so slightly.
“No, no, don’t stop, I’ll be good.” Asami’s need was overwhelming, lifting her hips off the bed, trying to press herself against Miska’s hand.
“No you won’t.” Miska returned to her ministrations, making Asami gasp.
“No, I won’t.”
Miska knew her too well. Well enough to keep her teetering on the edge as she pleaded for release before finally granting it. Well enough not to be surprised when Asami choked out the wrong name. She rolled off Asami, letting the woman catch her breath.
“Three years,” Miska shook her head, but there was no bitterness. “Three years and it’s always her.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“How about my name for a change, hey? Make a girl feel appreciated?”
Asami pushed herself up on one elbow, trailing her fingers down Miska’s stomach.
“you want appreciation? I’ll show you appreciation.”
“How about you put that smart-arse mouth of yours to better use, hmm?” Miska suggested, and Asami was only too happy to comply.
Every time Asami glanced up from her book in the carriage ride home Mako was staring at her, studying her. On the fifth time she slammed the book shut.
“Do I have something on my face?” She demanded.
“Not any more. You slept with her again, didn’t you?”
Asami didn’t bother to deny it. Mako sighed.
“Asami, you’re playing a dangerous game here.”
“I’m not playing any games. It’s not...I’m not planning on stealing her away from her husband or anything stupid like that. We’re just scratching a mutual itch.”
“Well your scratching could get you locked up,” Mako said seriously. Asami looked away. “I know about K...”
“Please don’t say her name.”
It was more of a plea than a request. Mako swallowed. He was so far beyond the line of what would be acceptable that he wouldn’t even have been able to see it, but that was pretty much par for the course when it came to the Sato heiress.
“I know what happened. The real story, not the official one. Asami, I’m sorry. But in a year your mother’s will comes into effect. You can get out of here, away from your father, away from the plantation and the bad memories and the simpering idiots. Just try and survive the year, ok?” he reached across the carriage and squeezed her hand. “And maybe take me with you when you leave because I honestly can’t stand your father.”
Asami laughed.
“That makes two of us.”
Asami put her book aside, leaning back against the carriage seats, trying not to remember a different hand that held hers, a different mouth that had kissed every inch of her. Almost three years and it still felt like there was a hole in her heart. Mako might have thought that time and distance would make things easier but he was wrong. No distance, no time, no amount of fine wine or rum, no amount of fucking Miska would ever help her forget the girl her father had killed for loving her.