Chapter 39

Abell tolls, the sound skipping across the river like a stone.

The thatched awning of a riverside tackle shop shields me from the drizzle cutting through the morning murk as I watch the portcullis rise in slow, clunking increments, stirring the layer of fog that’s settled on the water’s surface. Through the yawning gap, I see the dark outline of a river barge with bulging sails, lanterns strung between them and around the edge of the ship.

The River Norse snakes all the way from beyond the Alps in the Deep North—a two-way trading route that services the entire continent. South-sailing barges drift with its gentle flow, and those traveling upstream require the hulls to be packed with oar-wielding men who power the boats against the water’s sludgy current whenever the wind is down.

Touching every territory on its journey to the sea, the Norse finally pours into the ocean right here in Bahari’s capital. It carves an open path through Cainon’s thick, fortified, and well-lit wall that surrounds the city, cuts through the corner of the busy precinct, then spills into the bay. But rather than have an open freeway that allows ships to come and go as they please, that single cleft in the wall is barricaded with a metal portcullis regulated by heavily armed guards. It’s lifted whenever a barge requires passage—iron teeth of control that can clamp down at the simple pull of a lever.

I sigh, using my dagger to clear the dirt from under my nails as I set my sights back on the huge whaleboat docked straight ahead of me across the wide, cobbled road. Its patched, blue sails hang loose, baring all their bruises, suggesting the latest voyage was far from smooth.

That and the withered state of the crew, their steps wobbled on frail legs, finally dismissed after three hours of rolling barrels of oil down the pier and into the warehouse across the street. I frown at the memory of their open sores and rotting teeth, a sure sign they’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel for months, perhaps surviving on rum, blubber, and whale meat.

A man steps off the whaleboat and stalks the pier, his loose pants held up by a length of rope, scroll in one hand and a stuffed sack slung over his shoulder. The ornamental cap indicates he’s the captain.

Well, what’s left of him.

He passes a huddle of sour-faced soldiers stationed at the pier’s entrance, steps up to a leather tent that drips lanterns from all four corners—housing a wooden trestle table he sets his scroll atop—and waits.

The general sitting behind the desk continues to flip through a ledger, his features long and sharp, burnished hair pulled back in a tidy bun, gold epaulets polished to a gleaming shine.

Rubbing at the wiry beard covering half his face, the captain says, “Somethin’ wrong, General Grimsley?”

Grimsley stabs his finger at the ledger. “Captain Rowell. I see you last docked at this port over eight months ago.”

Rowell frowns. “Yes. That’s how long it took me to fill the hull …”

Peering up through shrewd eyes, Grimsley says, “Forgive me, Captain, but I find that very hard to believe.”

“It’s the truth!” Rowell blurts, eyes wide as he waves his hand at his ship. “Yuh think I’d want to stay on that there shit heap any longer than necessary?”

Grimsley glances down the pier. “I will admit, your ship certainly looks like it’s weathered more than usual this round.”

“That’s because it has. We were lucky to make it back alive.” Rowell nods at the scroll. “Now if yuh don’t mind, please look at that there record, tally the numbers against the stock we just stored in yuh warehouse over there, and bag me some coin so I can get home to me fam—”

“You know,” Grimsley cuts in, “you’re only allotted the lease of that ship on the provision of performance. Our city’s survival relies on the oil you procure. We lose the flames that keep our wall lit up at night, we all die.”

“I’m well aware, sir. And I would’ve sailed back much faster had the pickings not been so slim.”

“You mean to tell me you hunted through the migration season and it still took you eight months to sail back with a full hull?”

“Correct,” Rowell seethes, dropping his sack and planting his fist upon the table. He leans forward. “I lost three men out there. Good men with women and children I now have to visit, look right in the eye, and tell ‘em their pa ain’t coming home. Sooner or later yuh gonna have to bribe people to do this shit, and that’s the fuckin’ truth.”

A shiver runs up my spine as I look between the men, the ten soldiers standing guard with sharp eyes and hands clutched around their spears.

“Well,” Grimsley ponders, procuring a handkerchief from his breast pocket, using it to wipe Rowell’s spittle off his face. “Not today. Today, I won’t even be paying you for the oil—at least until I’ve seen your ledgers, spoken with some of your crew, and am certain you haven’t docked in Rouste or Ocruth and delivered to them for a premium in the months you’ve been away. I trust you’ve kept the records up to date?”

I lift a brow.

We haven’t purchased from whaling ships in years, and even then, it was only because our olive yield was down due to a particularly bad patch of weather. We paid a heavy premium—Cainon’s demand in exchange for his expended resources since he owns the fucking ships—but I have no doubt that ended up padding the right pockets. The sailors were tipped handsomely and had no reason to skim the top. It was a very lucrative year for Bahari. Which begs the question … why is the narrative suddenly being soured?

Perhaps they thinned the ocean too much and they’re looking for someone else to point at.

“Of course I kept my records up to date,” Rowell sneers, before spitting on the ledger spread across Grimsley’s desk. “Go find them yuhself. Block yuh nose on the way down. We ran into some weather and it smells like puke.”

He picks up his sack and spins, storming past me on his way down the street, muttering curse words.

Interesting.

Grimsley clears his throat, cleaning the spit off his ledger with his handkerchief before tossing it in the bin.

Frowning, I flip my dagger into its sheath and pull my hood lower, noting the Ocruth barge has finally docked. Weary passengers are disembarking, pushing carts or carrying baskets on their backs with babies wrapped close to their chests and wide-eyed children clinging to their legs.

One of the soldiers drags a thick chain across the cobbled ground, rattling the silence. It’s clipped high on another post, creating a barricade the men, women, and children are expected to line up behind.

A blow of wind stirs through them, dragging the sharp scent of fear straight past my nose.

My frown deepens, senses prickling.

A dark-haired man wearing the red cloak of a merchant is let past the chain, dragging his cart packed full of wares. Soldiers descend like vultures, swiftly scouring its contents. Clearing his throat, the merchant steps close to the table, casting nervous glances at a woman with two children still stuck behind the chain.

“Name?” Grimsley asks, quill poised.

“Ruslan, sir.”

A horse and cart stacked with baited shellfish pots ambles between the tackle shop and the tent, momentarily breaking my view.

Grimsley’s scratching at the page. “Why have you come to Parith?”

“I’m a traveling merchant, sir.”

“Official paperwork?”

Ruslan hands over a scroll, which Grimsley unrolls, studying it, jotting something on the ledger. “You’ll have to get a new one printed while you’re here. This one’s starting to fade.”

“Yes, sir.”

One of the small children dips beneath the chain, scoots past a swooping soldier, and latches onto Ruslan’s leg.

Grimsley frowns, looking from the child to the woman behind the chain cradling the younger one close. “Do you also speak for these people?”

“Yes, sir,” Ruslan says, nodding. “My family.”

Grimsley waves them forward, and a soldier loosens the chain to let the woman and her young pass.

“Refugees?”

“From Ocruth. Our home was destroyed. We, ahh …” Ruslan clears his throat, reaching down to run his fingers through his son’s inky hair. “We barely made it down to the bunker in time,” he chokes out.

His woman steps close, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Grimsley nods, jotting something down. “So you’re seeking to relocate?”

“Yes, sir. We are.”

“That’s fine.” He hands the paperwork back, then excuses Ruslan with a swift wave. “You may pass. Your family will catch a barge to one of the outer islands. Please follow Quill,” he says, looking at the pale-faced woman as he gestures toward the sailor standing sentry at his back. “He’ll take you to a temporary hold where you’ll stay until the next barge sails later today.”

My chest constricts.

He can’t be serious.

“But sir,” Ruslan blurts, grip tightening on his child, his other hand tangling with his woman’s shirt in a possessive grip. “I have the paperwork—”

“For yourself. That does not cover your kin. I’m sorry, there is limited space in the city.”

“B-but trade is best in the city! I need to sell our family heirlooms so we have enough coin to reestablish—”

“Then I suggest you do it fast,” Grimsley states, giving Ruslan a tight smile. “Either that or forfeit your heirlooms and join your family on the next barge. Your choice. Make it quick, we have lots of people to process.”

Ruslan’s screaming son is pried from his leg.

“Let him go!” the woman howls, clawing at the boy while the younger child—a girl—clings to her chest, howling.

“That’s not fair!” Ruslan cries, shoving the soldier and grasping the boy by his shoulders, holding him close. “Please be merciful. Please. We have nothing left. Without this, we’ll all starve—”

A soldier grabs his arms and holds them behind his back.

“Ruslan, if you don’t calm down,” Grimsley seethes, “I’ll tear up your papers.”

A dark surge rears inside me, slashing at my skin. A desire to step out of the shadows and stalk across the wide road, punch my fist through Grimsley’s chest, and feel his heart pulverize between my squeezing fingers. Or maybe I’d grip his ribs and use them to pry open his chest like a split book. Watch his lungs breathe their last breath.

I turn from the scene, seeking calm from the dimly lit innards of the tackle shop. The child’s screams continue to belt across the otherwise silent morning, and I close my eyes. Squeeze them tight. Crack my knuckles and my neck. Picture my lungs packed with the smell of amber and wildflowers.

“Next!” Grimsley hollers.

I force myself to turn and unclench my fists as I watch a familiar woman with dark skin and white, dreaded hair that falls to her hips push her cart up to the desk, her red merchant’s coat trailing through filthy puddles behind her.

There’s a scar that travels from the corner of her mouth to her ear, her stark eyes so brown they almost look black.

Grimsley frowns at Cindra after looking over her papers, uncertainty staining his features. “Merchant? How come I haven’t seen you before?”

“New to the trade, sir.”

Grimsley looks at her paperwork again, holding it up to the lantern light.

I grit my teeth so hard they ache.

“Something wrong, sir?”

One of the soldiers searching her cart flips the pelt back over the mound of leather satchels, chewing on something as he steps forward. “Black maple leaves, sir. It’s on the list.”

Grimsley nods and waves Cindra through.

She wheels her cart past me, and I wait until she’s halfway down the shop-lined street before I follow. Turning down a tight alley, we meet behind a stack of damp crates. “How many sailors on this one?”

“Seven,” Cindra replies through clenched teeth, flipping the pelt back and snatching one of the leather satchels off the top. Unbuttoning it, she digs her fingers through the innards and sneers. “If they all make it past that rat. I wouldn’t be surprised if half of them get sent back up the Norse on the next barge.”

I don’t tell her that based on the last two river shipments, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.

To sail these ships out of Bahari waters once we’ve secured them, we’ll need a small swarm of able-bodied sailors baring deep Rouste or Ocruth roots with their feet on this side of that wall.

So far, we only have forty-three.

“I have this urge to storm back there and feed him my fist,” she mutters, pulling a black leaf from the satchel and stuffing it in her mouth.

I want to do far worse than that.

“I noticed the travelers were all frightened the moment they stepped off the barge …”

She nods, chewing. “We almost missed a stop last night after seeing a pack of Vruk edging along the riverbank.”

My heart lurches. “Toward Lorn?”

Another nod. “This side of the border. Not your problem.”

No, but if Cainon’s attitude at the Conclave is anything to go by, I doubt he’s going to bother the risk of pinching a nerve in the effort to protect them.

“They’re traders, not warriors.”

“And the village will surely be missed come his yearly tithe.” Cindra extends the open pouch toward me. “Want some? Blunts the edge.”

Ignoring the offer, I turn and stare out the mouth of the alley.

In her direction.

I have everything I ever wanted, and you’re ruining it.

I tighten my fists, knuckles popping.

I need to respect her wishes. Give her space. Drain some of the murderous energy crackling through my veins before she’s forced to see that side of me …

Fuck.

“Isn’t it best to just let the Vruk inch their way here?” Cindra says past her mouthful, and I hear her spit. “Perhaps the Southern High Master’s help would come easier once they weather the same wrath.”

No.

“That’s not how I do things.” I reach into my pocket, pull out a loop of keys, and toss them at her. “Graves Inn. Shit end of town.”

“Charming,” she chimes, pocketing them.

“You can trust the innkeeper. See the crew make it to their lodgings. Make sure everyone’s comfortable and heartily fed.”

I dig my hand in my pocket again, pulling out the heavy weight of a silver token that I flip at her.

She’s swift to snatch it, frowning. “Master?”

“There is a very disgruntled whaling crew. Captain Rowell’s ship is berthed on the other side of the pier. If I don’t return and our people keep getting pushed back, follow that lead. He could be a viable backup, and from the looks of that ship, they know how to sail in rough seas.”

I spin, stalking down the alleyway.

“He wouldn’t show your people the same respect!” Cindra belts at my back as I turn onto the main street, it’s only occupant a rat that scurries over the cobbles, then disappears into a hole in the wall.

“I know,” I murmur, charging toward the river.