The warehouse was bare and still, cold and silent; she hated the sight of it. She hated the quiet. Even in the wee hours of the grave watch, the May Queen had never been silent - even laying broken here in this warehouse waiting for the Molly and her gray-robed friend to patch her engines, the warehouse had never been still. There had always been noise and light, crewmembers bickering and clamoring, cargo being moved, weapons being maintained. The ship had been alive, with all the bustle and clamour that went with it.
The empty hangar was a grave-robbed tomb. The May Queen was gone.
Tirla wasn't sure why she was tormenting herself like this again, walking the floors like a jilted bride long after the wedding guests had given up and departed. That all too human urge to prod the wound, perhaps, that shocked fascination upon discovering that, yes, something could hurt that bad. Like tonguing a sick tooth or peeling a scab, trying to see if the pain could be borne.
I made myself strong so that I couldn't ever feel this way again, she thought dully, taking a seat on a crate. It had once held vital engineering parts, she remembered - not her area of expertise, but somebody had to marshal the deck apes into loading it aboard. It was empty now, and thumped hollowly as her heels kicked it. Off loaded and abandoned....just like her. Made myself independent so nobody could leave me again. So why am I here, back with this same, stupid look on my face? It wasn't the first time she'd been marooned, after all, arrived at the pier hung over and reeling just in time to watch the ship disappear over the horizon. She'd always been able to shrug it off and crawl back into the bar, safe in the knowledge that she could secure another berth easily enough. There was always a need for a quick hand and a steady sword.
She rested her hands on her saber hilts and sighed. At least she still had these, her beauties, her most precious things. She'd been hounded, hunted and hated, but she'd never lost her grip on her blades. Well, not for very long, anyway....She'd traded and sold everything she had to get this far, from her pistols to the few scant pieces of jewelry she allowed herself, everything but the clothes on her back and her swords. It still wasn't enough....her coin purse barely had two coins to rub together, and she had no idea where she was going to sleep tonight. But at least she still had her swords, and that meant she still had control over her fortunes.
We've come a long way, you and I, she thought fondly. Imperials and fellow rogues, monsters and mysteries, both had fallen to her swords. She was the best; she'd worked hard to reach that level, given up more than most people could imagine, and nobody could take that from her. Not even poverty and thirst...
One glass of rum had not been enough to kill the craving in her gut, the dryness in her throat. There'd been a time when only the finest brandy and whisky had passed her discerning palate, the fruit of plunder. The stuff tonight had been middling, at best, but worlds better than the rotgut she'd been drinking - or could afford. She shook her head and touched the bottle of bubble mix in her pocket - that VeeJay had been a strange, strange woman, but Tirla figured she knew her game. Ply folks with drinks and gifts and bright conversation, and see what secrets fell out. Rumormongers made the best spies and informants, with a finger in so many different pies even they had trouble keeping track - the best kind of friend to have, if you were careful to keep your own secrets tucked away.
Tirla wasn't worried - she had a lot of practice at keeping her secrets close, even in her cups. The hard edged mask she showed the world had been worn so long now that she suspected it had replaced her real face - hard and sharp, like broken glass, keeping people away. Distantly, she wondered if perhaps she shouldn't have been friendlier to VeeJay, and that other woman, Lexie. She didn't generally do 'friendly' - her world had always been easily divided into 'shipmates' and 'everyone else'. Obviously, though, things were going to have to change now. VeeJay had said she might have a line on a job for her, and Lexie had given her a tip for an upcoming fight. Something that might keep a coin in her purse, so that she didn't have to sink to being a common brigand.
It was so undignified.
The empty hangar was a grave-robbed tomb. The May Queen was gone.
Tirla wasn't sure why she was tormenting herself like this again, walking the floors like a jilted bride long after the wedding guests had given up and departed. That all too human urge to prod the wound, perhaps, that shocked fascination upon discovering that, yes, something could hurt that bad. Like tonguing a sick tooth or peeling a scab, trying to see if the pain could be borne.
I made myself strong so that I couldn't ever feel this way again, she thought dully, taking a seat on a crate. It had once held vital engineering parts, she remembered - not her area of expertise, but somebody had to marshal the deck apes into loading it aboard. It was empty now, and thumped hollowly as her heels kicked it. Off loaded and abandoned....just like her. Made myself independent so nobody could leave me again. So why am I here, back with this same, stupid look on my face? It wasn't the first time she'd been marooned, after all, arrived at the pier hung over and reeling just in time to watch the ship disappear over the horizon. She'd always been able to shrug it off and crawl back into the bar, safe in the knowledge that she could secure another berth easily enough. There was always a need for a quick hand and a steady sword.
She rested her hands on her saber hilts and sighed. At least she still had these, her beauties, her most precious things. She'd been hounded, hunted and hated, but she'd never lost her grip on her blades. Well, not for very long, anyway....She'd traded and sold everything she had to get this far, from her pistols to the few scant pieces of jewelry she allowed herself, everything but the clothes on her back and her swords. It still wasn't enough....her coin purse barely had two coins to rub together, and she had no idea where she was going to sleep tonight. But at least she still had her swords, and that meant she still had control over her fortunes.
We've come a long way, you and I, she thought fondly. Imperials and fellow rogues, monsters and mysteries, both had fallen to her swords. She was the best; she'd worked hard to reach that level, given up more than most people could imagine, and nobody could take that from her. Not even poverty and thirst...
One glass of rum had not been enough to kill the craving in her gut, the dryness in her throat. There'd been a time when only the finest brandy and whisky had passed her discerning palate, the fruit of plunder. The stuff tonight had been middling, at best, but worlds better than the rotgut she'd been drinking - or could afford. She shook her head and touched the bottle of bubble mix in her pocket - that VeeJay had been a strange, strange woman, but Tirla figured she knew her game. Ply folks with drinks and gifts and bright conversation, and see what secrets fell out. Rumormongers made the best spies and informants, with a finger in so many different pies even they had trouble keeping track - the best kind of friend to have, if you were careful to keep your own secrets tucked away.
Tirla wasn't worried - she had a lot of practice at keeping her secrets close, even in her cups. The hard edged mask she showed the world had been worn so long now that she suspected it had replaced her real face - hard and sharp, like broken glass, keeping people away. Distantly, she wondered if perhaps she shouldn't have been friendlier to VeeJay, and that other woman, Lexie. She didn't generally do 'friendly' - her world had always been easily divided into 'shipmates' and 'everyone else'. Obviously, though, things were going to have to change now. VeeJay had said she might have a line on a job for her, and Lexie had given her a tip for an upcoming fight. Something that might keep a coin in her purse, so that she didn't have to sink to being a common brigand.
It was so undignified.