Page 35 of Saint
He’d pay me the sum that I’d take to Henrik before he gave me my cut, and then Lander would sell them to a few merchants in Ceros who thought they were getting the finest Bastian stones from some Saltblood’s side trade. They were buying below their value if the gems were legitimate, but they weren’t. In the end, the merchants would pay four times their worth.
The low murmur of Lander’s voice broke the silence as he counted to himself, and Isolde’s eyes finally found mine, though I could no longer read the look that lay there. She could hear the gems. Feel them, in a way. But we stood in a shop filled with everything from silver to onyx and, if that was true, she didn’t show it.
“That makes…” Lander murmured, his hand shaking slightly on the quill. The sheen of sweat at his temple had now pearled into a single drop, trailing along his jaw, to his chin. It fell onto the wooden counter between his fingers. “Seven and a quarter.”
“Seven and a quarter,” I repeated.
The corner of Isolde’s mouth twitched.
“That’s right.” Lander tapped the page of the ledger with his finger, reaching for the trunk he kept under the shelf. I waited for him to fit the key into the lock.
“That’s funny,” I said.
“What is?”
“When I weighed them this morning, there were nearly nine and a half carats.”
Lander’s lazy grin returned as he pulled two large purses of coin free. “Your scale must have been off. That happens with the movement of a ship, you know. Must be time to get it checked.”
When I said nothing, he gestured to the stones.
“You can see it for yourself. It says the weight right there.”
The brass basket that held the gems was still slightly swaying, the dial that sat in the center a smooth white face with a steel needle that read seven and a quarter.
“It’s wrong,” I said, the careful tenor of my voice unbroken.
I’d learned a long time ago that it never did much good to lose your temper. In the end, that was just noise. Only when it was quiet could you clearly detect the tells of a liar. The faint hitch of their breath. The shift of their eyes.
“We’ve been doing business a long time now, Lander.” I studied the scale. “So I don’t know why you’d choose now to cross me.”
Again, the too-quick laughter. The drop of one shoulder as he bent closer. “Saint.” He set both hands on the counter between us. “I—”
My hand hooked the handle of my knife before another word could leave his mouth and I lifted its weight into the air before letting my fingers loosen and skim its hilt. By the time I had clasped it in my palm, Lander was already straightening. Already tilting his weight backward.
I caught his wrist, pinning it in place as I drove the knife straight down. I didn’t even feel the tip of the blade press into his skin. Between the bones. It slid through muscle and veins until the steel found the solid wooden countertop beneath his palm and the sound of the metal ringing was followed by Lander’s strangled cry.
Isolde screamed, one hand flying to her mouth as her eyes widened.
“Saint!” Lander’s face twisted, the open gape of his mouth making my name sound misshapen as he gulped for air. “Saint!”
“What are you doing?” Isolde’s voice was hoarse. The hand that was pressed to her mouth was now just hovering in the air between us. She was so pale she looked like she was going to faint.
“Check it.”
“Wh-What?” she stammered.
“The scale,” I said softly. “Check it.”
Isolde stood frozen for several breaths before she moved forward, steps halting and jerking like she was struggling to move her feet. Her hands fumbled over the scale until she had hold of the dial.
I let go of the knife, moving my other hand from the counter before the blood that was pooling there could touch my fingers. Isolde sniffed, twisting the back of the dial open until it dislodged, and she bit down onto her bottom lip, looking up at me before she turned the tray so I could see.
Two small iron pellets had been wedged into the mechanism to create more resistance against the needle. I’d seen it done before in Cragsmouth, when my father had his catches weighed for sale. He hadn’t drawn his knife on anyone for it, but he should have.
“I’m sorry.” Lander gulped, choking. “I’m sorry! I just needed a little—”
“I don’t care what you need,” I said, reaching around him, into the trunk. “I expect to be dealt with fairly. And if I’m not”—I lifted another purse of coin from inside—“you will be made to wish you had. Next time it won’t be a hand.”
