Page 15 of Saint
“What did you say?” He set down the glass.
I glanced to Burke across the table. He pulled the pipe from his mouth.
Zola leaned closer, his voice deepening. “Is that what he’s doing? Saint? Smuggling gems?”
My eyes darted to the door the blue-eyed helmsman had walked through only minutes ago, that burning trail coming back to life on my skin.
A furious sneer twisted Zola’s face and I pinned my gaze to the tea in my cup, taking a sip. I hadn’t exactly meant to give the helmsman away, but the bastard was practically begging to be caught. I’d felt the red beryl as soon as I’d entered the tavern. My ear was tuned to even the faintest gemstone. But I was usually better at hiding it.
“And how exactly do you know he’s running gems in the rye?”
For a moment, I was sure that Zola had figured me out, and the thought made my stomach drop. I’d tipped my hand more than I should have.
“He had the crate marked. I’ve seen others do it in Bastian and Sagsay Holm,” I lied.
I was skirting far too close to the truth, but Zola seemed to buy it. He was ambitious, even if he wasn’t clever or discerning. People like him were no more than mice catching crumbs. People like my mother were the ones feasting at the table. That didn’t mean Zola wasn’t a threat.
Burke looked between us, uneasy, and Zola’s fist hit the table, making me jolt.
“That’s how he’s staying on the water. Paying a crew. Whoknows how many stones he’s moved. Of course he’s not just trading rye.” Zola was talking to himself now, but the sound of his voice trailed off as he drew in a long, steady breath. By the time he let it out, he was his usual, composed self again. “What does Gerik say?” he asked, turning to Burke.
“Nothing. Just that they’re running some rye every few weeks. Your typical low-rung trade under the noses of the Trade Council.”
It was a gamble to trust a harbor master, but no one else at a port knew more about what was moving in the ships or the merchant’s houses.
Zola squinted, staring past me with a singular focus that was unnerving. “He’s petitioned for a trade license, and now he’s running gems.”
“Even if he gets the license, that ship of his will run two or three routes before it’s sunk,” Burke offered.
Zola had grand ideas of operating his own trade route in the Narrows when his license came through. But all I’d seen him do since I stepped onto his ship was pretend to be anything but Narrows-born. It was my best guess at why he’d taken me on. Maybe to him, running dredging dives like they did in the Unnamed Sea and having Saltbloods on your crew made you one step closer to being one yourself.
“We need to be in Ceros in three days,” he said. “Make sure the crew doesn’t wander. We’ll leave before sundown tomorrow.”
Burke nodded.
I picked up my cup again, trying to give my fidgetinghands something to do. Now things were moving in the right direction. I didn’t care about their stupid disputes and rivalries. I just needed to get to Ceros.
Zola reached into his vest, pulling a small purse of coin free. He tossed it onto the table in front of me.
I stared at it.
“For the tools.”
“I thought you didn’t buy tools for your crew.”
“I think you’ve earned it.” He got to his feet and Burke followed, leaving me alone at the table.
In a matter of moments, pairs of eyes were finding me from every corner of the room in quick, pointed side glances and sinister stares. The people of Dern didn’t like having a Saltblood in their tavern, and they wanted me to know it.
I took the purse and abandoned the tea, buttoning up my jacket before I started toward the door. It wasn’t easy for me to admit, but I might have gotten more than I bargained for with this helmsman.
6SAINT
The streets of Dern were quiet after dark, but in a village this small, there was no going unnoticed.
I leaned into the brick wall at the corner of the alley, watching the lantern light in a window across the street dance over the cobblestones. The woman inside was spinning wool on a wheel and her shadow was cast onto the wall like one of the stringed-puppet shows performed on the streets of Ceros.
I’d been a boy the first time I saw one. My father had finally let me come with him to the city on his yearly trip to resupply his fishing boat with fresh lines, hooks, and nets. The buildings were taller than any I’d ever seen, and the maze of rope bridges that stretched over the rooftops was like something from a story. But what had most capturedmy imagination were the ships from the Unnamed Sea that were anchored in the harbor. The towering masts and crisp white canvas painted with trader’s crests. The busy work of the crews on the decks.
