The Iron Ship by K. M. McKinley Page A

place for men of their station,” said Mansanio.
    “Really now? So you didn’t put them there to keep them away from me, or should I say, me away from them.” She had a most lubricious way of smiling that affected Mansanio in many conflicting ways.
    “There are standards, my lady.”
    “Are there? In our brave new world?” she waved a hand. Mansanio noted with dismay that it was filthy, and her fingernails bitten down to the quick. “Rot etiquette, rot standards I say. If I want a tumble with a dog handler than I’ll bloody well have one, do you hear? I don’t give a shit for what should be or should not be done!” Her ears were colouring at the tips. Provided the flush stayed off her face, he should be able to salvage the situation.
    “It is my duty to ensure standards are met, my lady, that is all.”
    She gave a crooked grin, her eyes blazing with malicious amusement. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? That’s it, isn’t it?”
    Mansanio was mortified.
    “Oh do stop being such the mother hen, Mansanio. I am teasing you. How many years have I been doing that? Twenty? Ever since I could talk. And still you get flustered. You really are quite inflexible. I scandalise you, but I can assure you that I am not yet in the habit of screwing the lower orders. It looks to me like you are starting to believe the rumours.” She chuckled at that, but Mansanio could see the hurt. And she did not know the half of what was said about her. Nothing riled him more than when he heard her referred to by her nickname; nothing upset her more either, he was sure, although she went to great lengths to pretend she did not care. More, she went to great lengths to provoke it, so she could publicly display her lack of concern.
    They called her the Hag of Mogawn. It was ludicrously unfair. Countess Lucinia was no Maceriyan ideal of beauty. She was, if he were entirely honest, plain, a state she did little to alleviate by the manner of her dress and behaviour. A heavy nose, weak chin, a brow that could kindly be described as strong but might better be said to be furious. She looked far too much like her father and not enough like any one of her female relatives. She was unkempt, dirty in habit and mind, foul-mouthed, libidinous. She smoked, and was prone to drink, but she was brilliant, truly, truly brilliant. What man could not love a mind like hers? That she remained alone pained him as much as if she had taken a husband. Mansanio could never rid himself of the hope that one day she might reciprocate his feelings.
    She did not know how close she had come to the truth. Mansanio was jealous, and he was also guilty. In attempting to shield her from the rumours, he’d become to half believe them himself.
    He was just as adept at hiding his feelings as she was, however.
    “Gorwyn is a noble, of the Gorwyn family. Don’t look so bloody surprised man! Times change. Some of us are having to work,” she stressed the last word gleefully, with a wicked expression. “What does that do to your notions of status? By your own rules you should put him in the hall.”
    “The barracks—”
    “Put him in the fucking hall, Mansanio!”
    “As you wish.” He looked at the crates dubiously. “What do I do to help?”
    She looked at him in disbelief. “Get a crowbar, you outland fool! Then use it to prise the lids off! You do know how to use a crowbar, don’t you?”
    “Yes, mistress. Of course.”
    “Then get to it!”
    He retrieved the tool. With delicate disinclination he fumbled at the first lid. The countess rebuked him and he tried harder. He was no stranger to manual work, no matter how hard he feigned incompetence. She always saw right through him, except in that one important regard.
    “Come and look at this, Mansanio,” she said.
    He walked over to her as if it troubled him to be drawn from his work opening boxes, although that could not be further from the truth.
    Standing by the countess was something Mansanio relished. Her body