“Hollow legs,” she replied. “That, and all those rumours about hard-drinking naval lieutenants being nothing more than mariner’s fancy.”

“Hah! Prove it. One last toast. For Kasamor.”

Across the river, the firestone lanterns of the Silverway gleamed invitingly. Strains of fiddle music drifted through the winds, the notes shaping the wild steps of a dance that had spilled out through the open doorway and into the street. The last place she’d drunk with Kasamor. The last place she ever would. Fitting to end things there.

“Very well,” she said. “One last drink. But after that, home.”

Sevaka grinned and threw an unsteady salute. “Agreed. Endala drag me to the depths if I break my vow.”

“It’s not sea-spirits you’ve to worry about, but the gutter. Because that’s where I’ll leave you. And I don’t reckon your mother would approve of you invoking heathen gods.”

“Mother? Hah! She approves of nothing! But the sea keeps us apart.” Her tone grew whimsical. “It’s a good life. Wouldn’t give it up for anything. Y’should try it.”

Rosa shook her head. “I like my boots on firm land, thanks.”

“Pfffff! Then lead on, dryfoot.”

Already regretting the decision, Rosa steered Sevaka towards the tide-worn bridge. She’d never suspected she could spend any amount of time around the younger Lady Kiradin. But as the afternoon had worn on, and liquor had chipped away at Sevaka’s aristocratic mask, she found herself not in the company of hauteur, but a carefree woman whose grief was as genuine as her need to share it.

The wind picked up as they abandoned the shelter of the streets for the empty quayside. Flecked with salt-spray, it howled across the bay and whistled through the rigging of moored ships. Rosa half-led, half-dragged Sevaka past the nearest pier head, where a toiling crew laboured to batten down a forlorn-looking merchantman. With each gust of wind, firestone lamps swayed precariously in the rigging, dancing like mischievous spirits.

Even the stacks of cargo, chained down to deter would-be thieves, offered little sanctuary from the wind. Sevaka, still in a uniform fashioned for such abuse, seemed barely to notice. Rosa’s panelled gown – chosen in a whim of maudlin fancy – was of no protection at all, and she shivered with every step.

And yet . . . However cold she was, however goose-marked her skin, Rosa knew it should have been worse. It was as if what she felt wasn’t really cold at all, but its memory.

Or maybe those endless toasts lingered with her more than she believed.

“Well now, Roslava Orova. And in a dress, too. Must be seeing things.”

Rosa winced at the familiar voice, colder than the wind. She turned about, staggered by the need to steer Sevaka also.

“Aske. I’m not in the mood.”