Page 51 of Saint
The click of the helm’s lock made me turn in time to see Clove climbing down the ladder into the passageway. I watched his blond hair disappear behind the ledge.
They were a curious pair. Nothing like the helmsmenand navigators I’d sailed with before. These two spoke a language that only they knew, reading each other’s minds without so much as sharing a glance. They seemed more like brothers than anything, but there was no trace of that in looking at them.
“What was that thing Saint did with the knife back in Sowan? Why did he cut his hand like that?”
Nash wiped a drip of sweat from his chin, looking up at me. “You’ve never heard those stories?”
I shook my head.
“You’re definitely not from the Narrows, then.” He dropped the adze, rising to his feet and reaching for the waterskin hanging from the mast behind me. “It’s a pact with the sea demons. Something the old sailors used to do.”
“What do you mean, apact?”
He shrugged. “Like an agreement. That’s why the bastard’s ship hasn’t sunk. There’s a reason people are afraid of him. They’re scared they’ll cross those demons and draw their eye.”
“People really believe that?”
“Most do.” He took another drink, replacing the lid. “Others think he’s just mad.”
I half laughed. “Which do you believe?”
His eyes traveled to the sails stretched over our heads. I expected him to laugh too, but he didn’t. “If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have said it was all bullshit.”
I hesitated. “And now?”
“Can you think of another reason we’re still breathing after last night?”
I could only guess that the rumors about Saint and theRivenhad been born of a hundred other stories just like them. A mad helmsman and a cursed ship, tempting death with the favor of the sea demons. After what I’d seen last night, I couldn’t be completely sure that it wasn’t true.
Nash passed me the waterskin, lowering down onto his haunches and getting back to work. I’d heard people joke about the backward ways of the Narrows. The archaic manner of living and lack of advancement. We had our own legends and myths in the Unnamed Sea. But no one put any stock in them. Not anymore.
I paced across the deck and into the passageway, peering into the helmsman’s quarters. But where I thought I would see Saint sitting at his desk, it was empty.
I hooked one hand on the doorframe, slipping inside, and that scent that followed him hovered between the walls. It was the smell of the sea. Not of the sun-warmed shallows or the surf foaming on the sand. It was the scent of deep water, something I could never describe with words but that I would know anywhere.
The chime of the adder stones clinked in the open window, the only embellishment to the threadbare cabin. TheRivenwas anything but impressive, but even in the helmsman’s quarters, Saint wasn’t pretending it was. That was one of the first things I’d marked as a difference between him and Zola.
I caught one of the stones in the palm of my hand, rubbing my thumb over its face. My mother would laugh at the simple superstition. She’d mocked the crew members of herships that followed such rules, but that didn’t keep them from practicing the rituals out at sea.
I took a step toward the desk, where a frayed edge of torn white linen was hanging from the smallest drawer. I opened it, peering inside. There were at least a dozen strips folded on top of one another. The same ones Saint always had wrapped around his hand.
The ledger sitting on top of the parchment had been left open and the handwriting that covered the page wasn’t careful or practiced. It was hurried. Sloppy, even. But the numbers were legible in the right-hand column. I followed them with my finger.
Ship repairs. Salted pork. Crates of rye.
Nothing about the wool I’d seen them unload in Sowan or the gems I’d stolen back from Zola. If this ship had an off-the-books trade inventory, it was a lean one. They had to be making most of their coin in smuggled fakes. But the sums were almost nonexistent, coming down to nearly zero every few weeks before they shot up again and began ticking down.
That explained the desperation I’d seen in Saint’s eyes when he grabbed me in the alley in Dern. At any given moment, this operation was only a breath away from coming apart.
The largest and most recent amount listed as a payment was to a Rosamund in Dern, but there was no notation of what goods it was for. This two-man crew didn’t look like much to contend with, but they sure had a lot of secrets. Maybe that was why Zola was so fixated on them.
Beside the desk, the cylinder case Saint had strapped over his chest the night before had been returned to its hook. I reached up, taking it from the wall and prying the lid open. Inside, creamy white parchment was curled up tightly.
I watched the door for any sign of him before I slid it free, unrolling it over the desk.
It was a map. A beautiful one.
I shifted the parchment into the light coming from the window, letting it move over the colors and bring them alive. The scripted writing at the top was done in an expert hand, a flawless calligraphy.
