The night was over, thanks Gala! When the first pink streak of sunrise shot across the sky, I hopped off the cot I hired. It was far less comfortable than Kozima's arms. The room was stuffy and full of other women in need of an affordable place to sleep. As I stretched my shoulders, I missed waking up with his runaway curls under my cheek. Cracked ceiling with sleepy flies crawling over it made a poor substitute for fading stars. The place was ugly, but safe and cheap. Soon, I should be able to afford a better room, but not a husband to share it with. That would take a while.

With yesterday's bread heel between my teeth, I ran down the winding lane towards the patch of blue between the buildings: the Gulf. Its wet, salty smell wiped away the stink of poverty from my nostrils. My bread dropped into my stomach one well-chewed piece at a time, then swelled there. A tough bugger, but I could handle it. I washed my face and hands, then peered at the sails from under my hand.

The Naiad's familiar shape loomed ahead.

I ran over, pulled in a chest full of fresh breeze to yelp, "Sharim!"

Sharim's head popped over the side. The vitality radiating from her set the drummers drumming inside my head. Maybe I should have limited myself to wine yesterday, like Anastasia. The beer didn't seem vile, but the hangover was brutal.

I winced. "You're energetic this morning, Captain."

She twisted her neck left and right, but only out of habit. All tension that used to plug her, bone and sinew, seemed to have dissipated. I swear, she looked ten years younger.

"Divine Gala spoke to Lydia, don't you know?" she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

I rubbed the vein pulsating on my temple. Wine next time. Wine, and to the River Vash with the cost!

"You don't say! Did Divine Gala quicken Lydia's womb with a semi-Divine child?"

"Nothing like that," Sharim said, chuckling. "Apparently a beautiful young man had been overcome by Divine inspiration at the Temple. He had a prophetic verse for everyone, including Lydia."

"Sheesh, maybe I should drink less and pray at the Gala's Rock more! My dive had only ugly men and no poetry at all."

Her brows quirked. "Maybe you should."

At least she held back a question about my age.

"At any rate, Lydia believed the verses. She came back inspired, ordered her husband to mind his place, and promised to give her boys dowries enough to marry princesses. But only if she likes them, ha-hah. Then, she cut off the man she was courting."

"Praise Gala!" I exclaimed. "She did it all in one night?"

"All in one night."

"A woman of business!"

"A woman of faith. It was you who said she would turn around. And that Divine Gala is on our side. It all came to pass."

Curse my big mouth. I wanted to keep Sharim's spirits up, while I was waiting for our ruse to be a go and I must have blurted out something. "Everyone's said that, Sharim."

The Captain shook her head stubbornly. "You whistle--and good wind rises, Safic."

I was going to argue, but I liked the sound of this new saying. Forcing things to go my way, it felt good. It felt right. Speaking of which...

"Speaking of the wind. I saw the mercenaries coming to town, the Queen's Deadhead Company. I want to try my luck with them. Fighting is more my business than oysters, and the barracuda won't bother you again. No offense."

"None taken," Sharim said.

I waved her goodbye and turned to leave.

"Wait!"

She rummaged through her sea chest and produced a net. It was no bigger than a spider's and just as fine as spider silk.

"This doesn't have much magic written into it, but it would tangle feet on a woman if you threw it right. Buy you a bit of time in a pinch. I have a feeling you might need it one day."

I took the gift with a bow of gratitude. "Sharim, are you sure you're a simple fisher?"

"Didn't I tell you why I stayed on the Naiad? Now go... No. Wait!"

I turned around again, half of the magic net still hanging out of my belt pouch. "Yes?"

She jumped over the side of the Naiad and landed on the docks like a feather. Happiness made her sprightlier than ever. She took me by the elbow. Instinctively I leaned into her. Her leathery lips brushed my ear. "I was meaning to tell you for a while, but it didn't come up. If you want to pass for a Safic in the future you'll need to speak like them. They turn all their t's into soft double dd's. Like this."

She said a few words—and I would be damned if I had noticed that specific thing before, but she was dead on.

"You watch for it, girl, right?"

I nodded wordlessly, overflowing with gratitude. This woman had every reason to take me by the scruff of my neck and surrender me to the Watch. I got on her ship by lying. I impersonated a foerign national. Gala only knows why she didn't do it the first time she saw me. The important thing was that she didn't. I owed her... not an explanation, of course. But I owed her something.

"My name is Ismar. Ismar of Palmyr. And... thank you. For everything."

"Good luck, Ismar." For some reason, she chuckled when she said that.

***

Before the familiar gates of the Deadhead's compound, Miccola stared at my bald head for a good while, before clutching her sides. She bent at the waist to cope with the fit of snorts, neighs, giggles, guffaws and other indescribable sounds.

"I can't," she moaned between the bursts, "I just can't!"

I guess it was the day for people to point at me and laugh for no good reason.

"Laugh all you want," I told her with gravity, "but if you ask around, they will tell you about a Safic woman who'd killed the giant barracuda bewitched by the Bhutas. That was me."

I wanted to boast that I also seduced a man over two rivals, but decided against sharing too much and risking Kozima's reputation. Still, I felt I needed to say more. She stuffed her thumbs behind my belt. "Anyhow, not all of us win victories by standing around and looking heroic. Some of us have to fight to the death."

Miccola managed three breaths in a row with no snorts whatsoever. "It wasn't just a heroic look that won the day, Ismar. I had to scowl a little."

She demonstrated her war face. Her wide teeth were stained purple from the widow's nuts, so called for their stimulating properties.

"Aye, your teeth might have terrified toddlers," I said. "Maybe some men inclined to hysteria if you jumped at them with that smile on."

She crooked a finger at me. "Let's see how you do against someone smarter than a goldfish."

I would have come up with a withering comeback, but she was pointing inside the compound. So, I shut up and followed her. I had never entered a temple with more reverence. This was as close to jumping on a cloud to visit the Divines as it came for me.

With a stilled heart, I took my first step inside the Deadhead's compound, twisting my head left and right, to not miss anything.

The place was built as a defendable stronghold. There was the central keep I could see over the walls, a training yard with the shooting range, rows of supply galleries and the watchtowers. Then, towards the canal, started the stables for the Company's marvelous horses. They were the mercenary's pride and joy. Every minute someone went in and out of the stables to ensure the best care and exercise for the noble beasts.

Miccola took me by the shoulder to keep me from tripping over my feet as I twisted my head nearly backward like an owl in hopes of glimpsing a white horse. The rumor said they had two for the Captain-Commander. I had missed seeing it when they rode out of town.

The altar of Mythra presided over the practice yard. It was portable, the reminder of the contractual nature of the mercenary business. The Southern Empire once had a standing army of a hundred thousand and more, but these times were gone as surely as the days of the Primordial Strife. Now the companies formed under famous Captain-Commanders to be contracted when needed. It was efficient, and it sufficed. 'War is the lowest form of peace', the scriptures said. Lowest but unavoidable, no matter how clever the Queens and their crones became.

Just like Miccola, I made an obeisance to Mythra, to thank Them for our business thriving.

"Praise Mythra," I said out loud and my voice nearly broke. It was happening, really happening! I would become a mercenary tonight!

"What do you normally fight with?" Miccola asked.

I hefted my knife to show her.

"Got anything bigger?" someone called from the side.

While we paid our respects to Mythra, the women started to gather, gawking at us. I didn't know what Miccola told everyone, but apparently, everyone and their dog wanted to see me spar with her. All that is, with the exception of the Foot Commander I was supposed to impress.

Miccola scowled at her comrades-at-arms and picked out two practice blades from the weapon rack. They were easily twice bigger than my knife, but still smaller than a longsword. Straight, rather than curved like a cavalry saber.

"Ever handled something like that?" Miccola asked, weighing it in her hand.

"An ax," I admitted, remembering the devastation I wrought on the underbrush around the orchards.

Thankfully, she tossed me the practice blade instead of the follow-up questions. Because explaining my training routine would have been a drag.

I caught the practice sword out of the air with only a nick to my finger. 'Nobody noticed', I thought, willing my hands to stop shaking.

Miccola saluted me to signal the start of the practice bout.

Her squared stupid-wide shoulders; her hair pulled back into a tight warrior-knot; her legs set in a low, threatening stance; bared purple teeth and the sword...

Sure, it was only a dull practice sword, yes. Yet facing a fierce opponent with the sword in my hand floated my heart all the way to Nirvana.

I always knew I wanted to fight, I didn't know just how badly. I saluted Miccola and screamed with elation.