Liberator Square sounded a lot grander than it actually was. Perhaps that was just Sweetwater. The pirate city resisted grandeur. The Square was a space made by the backs of houses. In the centre of that space was a patch of green. It wasn’t grass, which would have been a terrible indulgence in the heart of the desert. It was a hardy moss that took advantage of the shade of the buildings and the lip of the sink-hole above. The moss looked pretty and felt pleasantly bouncy underfoot. Around the green was a series of sculptures of long dead pirates of note.

The honey twist stall was at the foot of the sculpture of Valin Khouri,the ship’s cook from Bassin Barrode’s legendary crew. The statue showed a stocky, muscular man, standing with his arms crossed and frowning down on the stall. A chef’s knife and a meat tenderiser hung from the belt of his apron.

Makare stared up at the cook’s grumpy expression as Djet chatted with the man behind the stall. She didn’t want to intrude on their conversation but she couldn’t help hearing Djet enquire after the man’s family and the stall-holder ask how Djet was doing at school.

There was some gossip about how the man’s son was doing in his sailing career and whether there might be a place for Djet on the same crew. Makare was beginning to get a feel for how people talked about piracy and smuggling in Sweetwater and she was almost positive that the stall-holder’s son might be wanted for smuggling in at least three of the cities around the Dune Sea. Djet seemed to be of the opinion that it was a good start and if he kept it up it would soon be all seven.

At last Djet thrust a paper bag into Makare’s hand and walked away from the stall. Makare followed him, one eye still on the statue of the cook. “He seems kind of bad tampered,” said Makare.

“He’s always been very pleasant to me,” said Djet.

“No. The statue. Valin Khouri. He’s got a proper glower on. Not sure I’d want to run a food stall from in front of him. You’d think he’d scare people away.”

Djet squinted up at the face of the statue. “I’ve always thought he looked more sad than angry. I’ve been through the surviving log books. The others all talk about him never being happy with any of their plans. He only wrote in the log a couple of times but even in his own words he comes across as a real misery-guts.”

“I wonder why the others put up with him?” said Makare. “It can’t be good for morale to have one person always complaining about everything.”

“They do say that he was a very good cook,” said Djet.

“And an even better pickpocket,” said the stall holder, with a wide grin.

“Pretty good with a locked door too,” said Djet. “Though not as good as this fellow.”

The next statue was a handsome, slender young man with the angular features and pointed ears common to those with Norn heritage. The plinth named him as Avine Gower.

“What do you reckon to the Norn controversy?” said Makare.

“What controversy?” said Djet, “with a name like that he had to be at least part Norn.”

“I’m part Norn,” said Makare, “Most of the noble houses of Hathorth are, but you can only tell because I’ve got grey eyes.”

“And very striking they are,” said Djet.

“That is not why I brought them up. But thank you anyway.” Makare looked into her paper bag so as to not think about how hot her cheeks were. She wasn’t used to getting compliments that actually meant anything. In her Father’s house every compliment had been just another step in a dance of influence.

The Honey Twist turned out to be a pastry. It was a many layered twist of puff pastry, glazed with honey, and sprinkled with nuts of some kind. Makare took an experimental bite. It turned out to be one of those very flaky pastries that disintegrate when you bite into them and are almost impossible to eat gracefully. She was instantly covered in crumbs but she did not care because it was delicious.

“Is there rose water in this?” she said.

“There’s a little in the honey glaze,” said Djet.

“Hey! That’s a trade secret.” Said the stall holder.

“Then you shouldn’t have told me,” said Djet.

“How did he hear that from over there?” whispered Makare.

“You’re not the only one round here who’s part Norn. He’s got the ears. That’s why he always keeps his hat on when he’s working. Doesn’t want people to know how well he hears.”

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“That’s not how that works,” said Makare. “My eyesight is no better than yours.”

“But are you sure?” said Djet.

“I know how well I can see,” said Makare.

“But do you though? Have you ever really tested yourself? It doesn’t seem like it from the way you talk about your father.”

Makare wanted to disagree with him but he had a point. She didn’t actually have anything to compare her vision to. She’d never gone hunting or camped in the wilderness so she’d never had the chance to find out if she could see farther than others. “I suppose I’ll find out when I pick my first level.”

They ate the honey twists in the shadows cast by the next statue. Gart Touran, according to the plinth, was a huge man. He was broad shouldered, and heavily muscled and dressed in long loose clothing. The sculptor had done a masterful job of communicating the drape and flow of his clothing. His hands rested on the handle of a huge, double bladed axe. One blade was buried in wooden boards that looked like they might form part of a ship’s hull.

“Do you think that axe is meant to be read as a tool or a weapon?” said Makare.

“Oh both, definitely,” said Djet. “Sailors don’t take weight lightly.” Djet stopped, seeming to realise how incredibly stupid his words sounded.

“Do you want to take another run at that sentence,” said Makare.

“I just meant that weight is big issue for sky sailors so they tend to pick weapons that are either light, or have more than one function. And that extends to Gart himself. He’s a big guy. Probably had a big appetite too. A captain would need a lot of faith in someone that size to have them on board. Gart weighed as much as two men, and probably ate as much as three Dwerg or four Pygmies, so he must have been worth two to four other people.”

“So the axe is a metaphor as much as it’s an axe?” said Makare.

“It is also literally just a huge axe.”

“That’s what makes it art.” Makare thought back to her art tutor. He hadn’t taught her how to make art only how to appreciate it in an appropriate way. These statues were not the sort of art she’d been taught to appreciate because these were for everyone. On the other side of the square she could even see children clambering all over one statue that she was sure, from the pose, was Bassin Barrode himself. She took another thoughtful bite of her honey twist and followed Djet to the next statue.

This one was a small woman wearing a knee length mage coat with the sleeves rolled up. She had some kind of elaborate construction on her head. At first Makare took it for a head-dress but then she realised that it was an intricate hairstyle. Hoops of braided hair that framed her face like a halo. Her outstretched hands held a misshapen blob of verdigrised copper that had probably once been intricately molded flames. The plinth marked her name as Su Yin.

Makare had always been drawn to the stories of Su Yin. She’d been one of the greatest Fire Mages in the Seven Cities at a time when there just weren’t human women Fire Mages. Even now most of the best Fire Mages were Dwerg and even among the Dwerg they tended to be men. But this tiny woman from the frozen mountains had been one of the best who ever lived. She was the first human recognised as a Forge Mage by the Dwerg. She could soften iron and steel with her bare hands and keep it at a workable temperature as long as a smith needed. They said that she could burn a small sky-ship down to it’s keel all by herself.

“I’ve never liked this statue,” said Djet, breaking into Makare’s thoughts. “That hairstyle makes no sense to me.”

“It’s probably a traditional Gurpa style,” said Makare.

“It’s a traditional Gurpa wedding style. Even in Skyfell they don’t wear those elaborate braids unless it’s for something formal. Who would wear that into battle?”

“Maybe she did it to show off? As like a demonstration of her skills? My fire burns hotter than yours and also check out my awesome hair?”

“I don’t know,” said Djet, heading for the next statue, “Doesn’t it look a bit flammable to you?”

Makare decided that she’d rather the discussion was over so she turned her attention to the next statue. Calyn Okoro according to the name on the plinth. “She doesn’t look much like a Sarouin Mystic to me,” said Makare.

Most Sarouin were modest in the extreme. It was rare to see much skin and many of them, regardless of race or gender covered their hair. This statue looked like some of the paintings of Sarouin Harem tents that Makare had seen in the houses of rich “art collectors”. Calyn Okoro was shown wearing a diaphanous dress covered very little and revealed the shape of what it did cover. She was shown holding a gnarled wooden staff and with her eyes fixed on the sky. Everything in her pose suggested that she was about to call down the wrath of the heavens to ruin someone’s day.

“Now the Calyn Okoro modesty controversy is where the historians get really intense,” said Djet.

“Because there’s all this art of her running around half naked but we know she was a Sarouin?” said Makare. “Surely that’s just old creepy rich men being rich and creepy and paying artists for the art they like looking at?”

“You’d think so, but the weird thing is that the older the art the more likely it is that she’ll be shown wearing very little,” said Djet, “These are some of the earliest statues in Sweetwater. They didn’t start out here. They were down by the harbour until the deep water anchorages were cut so the really big sky ships could set down safely. They had to be moved to extend the deep water quay.

The gang of small children who’d been clambering all over the statues scampered away as Makare and Djet approached the last two statues. The two most famous pirates of their day. Bassin Barrode, the Liberator, the founder of Sweetwater and his first mate and Quartermaster Jenn Tahan. They stood, blades in hand and back to back. Bassin was all billowing sleeves and long flowing hair. He had a straight sword in his right hand and a curved dagger in his left. He was a handsome man, his beauty only marred by a scar that cut through his left eyebrow and ran down the middle of his cheek.

Jenn wore a tighter shirt and knee britches showing off her curves and her strong calves. Her hair was a mass of braids. Jewellery dripped from any part of her that one might wear jewellery. She wielded a pair of scimitars. The sculptor had tried to capture the brutal grace of a pair of sword masters fighting for their lives but had mainly succeeded in making them pretty.

Makare swallowed the last of her honey twist and brushed the many crumbs off herself. Dozens of tiny birds dropped down from their parches on the roof tops and balconies to feast on the sweet, crispy flakes.

“Back to my house to watch me fail to make hot drinks until my mother decides to step in and make it for us?” said Makare.

“Lead the way,” said Djet.