Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [13]
Yasmeen shook her head. “It was the middle of the night. I couldn’t know where he landed.”
Lies. Her eyes saw well enough in the dark. She’d watched him splash into the canal. She’d known that with luck and brains, he’d survive—and her crew wouldn’t think she’d gone soft.
But even for Archimedes Fox, his chances of survival were slim. She wouldn’t give this woman any more false hope than she offered herself.
“I see.” Zenobia’s fingers tightened on her cup. “If, on your travels, you see him with the other zombies . . .”
“I’ll shoot him,” Yasmeen promised.
“Thank you.” The vulnerability left her face, replaced by sudden amusement. “Speaking of your travels, Captain . . . you’ve tossed the source of my stories overboard.”
Yasmeen looked pointedly at Zenobia’s fingers. Unlike the actress’s, ink stained their tips. “You’re writing.”
“Only letters.”
“You won’t need the income when I’ve sold the sketch.”
“You misunderstand me.” Zenobia set her cup on the table and leaned forward. “I don’t need the income now. I write because I enjoy it. Will you leave your airship when you’ve received your portion of the money?”
“No.” When she left her lady for the last time, it would only be because her dead body had been dragged away.
“It is the same with me for writing. I won’t stop, not voluntarily. But I do need inspiration for the stories. With the basis for Archimedes gone, I’ll have to create another character. Perhaps a woman this time.” She sat back, her gaze narrowed on Yasmeen’s face. “What about . . . The Adventures of Lady Lynx?”
Yasmeen laughed. Zenobia didn’t.
“You’re not joking?”
The other woman shook her head. “You live a life of adventure and meet with many different people, particularly the villainous sort.”
Yasmeen was the villainous sort. “Yes, but—”
“I’ll write them. You receive twenty-five percent of royalties.”
The sudden need for a cigarillo almost overwhelmed her. A drink, a hit of opium. Anything to calm her jumping nerves. Was she going to agree to this?
Yes. Of course she was. Even without royalties, she would have.
But still, no need to be stupid about it.
“Fifty percent of royalties,” Yasmeen countered. “Paid quarterly in French currency or gold.”
“Twenty-five percent. You send me reports of where you go, who you see, what you eat. I need to know how long it takes you to fly to each location. I want your impressions of your crew, your passengers, and everyone you meet.”
Impossible. “I won’t share everything.”
“I won’t name them. I only seek authenticity, not a reproduction of the truth.”
“I won’t share everything,” Yasmeen repeated.
For a moment, Zenobia looked as if she’d try to negotiate that, too. Then she shrugged. “Of course you can’t. But let us begin with your background. Thirteen years ago, you joined my father’s crew. After you killed him—well done, by the way—you sold Lady Corsair’s services as a mercenary in the French and Liberé war, where you worked both sides, depending upon who paid the most. You earned the reputation of being willing to do anything for money. But what happened before that? Where were you before my father’s ship?”
In a very pretty cage. But did she want to share that? Yasmeen shook her head. “As far as I’m concerned, my life started when I boarded Lady Corsair. Make up what you like about what came before.”
“All right. A mysterious past will only make Lady Lynx more fascinating,” she mused. “I could deliver the background in bits, like crumbs.”
“Whatever you like.” Yasmeen stood. “I’ll send the other reports to you regularly.”
Zenobia’s expression sharpened as she rose. “Where are you heading after you leave Fladstrand? Do you have a job now?”
“No. We’ll spend the day traveling to Port Fallow. Mattson was only here because an art dealer talked about the sketch. I need to have a conversation with him.”
Then she’d fly to England,