Page 11 of Saint
“He’s been offering to give the details of the build to anyone willing to pay a purse of copper. So far, no one has.”
People speculating was one thing. But Nash actually knewwhat was going on in that pier. And three weeks was too long to wait and see if he found someone who was interested in the information he was selling. We were too close to let it all come apart now.
“Start a new rumor. I don’t care what it is, as long as it has nothing to do with me,” I said.
The barkeeper gave a reluctant nod in answer. “You got it.”
“Saint!”
My name traveled across the tavern, carried on the voice of the last person I wanted to see.
Clove met my eyes and I let out a long, measured breath before I turned to see Zola leaning one shoulder into the wall beside the fire. TheLuna’s navigator, Burke, was at his side. Zola’s long black jacket nearly touched the tops of his new boots and I could see the shine of the brass eyelets gleaming from where I stood. Over the last few months, he’d been coming and going from the Unnamed Sea on almost every round of his route. I’d been sure we would miss him.
“Must have come in early,” Clove muttered.
Zola lifted a hand into the air, waving us over, and I hesitated before hauling the crates back up into my arms. We made our way toward them as Burke filled his pipe with mullein, uninterested.
Zola, on the other hand, feigned a smile. It was no secret that he was out for our blood, but there were appearances to be kept up in the Narrows. Especially if you didn’t want someone to see your knife coming. We both had a part to play and, up until now, we’d played them very well.
I set the crates down at my feet, taking Zola’s extended hand and shaking. “How was Bastian?”
“Productive.” Zola’s smile widened.
I’d known him a long time. Long enough to recognize when he was playing games. But the thing about Zola was that to him, everything was sport. That made it difficult to pull apart the lies from the truths.
The first time we’d crossed his path, Clove and I were just getting started on what would later become our unofficial route. We’d made a stop in Ceros and, back then, Zola was nothing more than a deckhand who floated from one ship to another. Now, he was running his own unsanctioned trade route while he waited for his license, like the rest of us. We were set to be each other’s competition in the Narrows, but Clove and I weren’t much of a threat on theRiven.There was no doubt in my mind that he would step in if he knew what Rosamund was building over in the pier.
“Headed to Sowan?” he asked, eyes dropping to the crates.
I nodded. “The usual.”
“I’ve told you there’s no money in rye, Saint. You should be moving gems. That’s all those guild bastards in Ceros care about. Trust me.”
“One day,” I answered, struggling to conjure up the pretense we usually exchanged.
Zola had built himself a crew and he had enough friends in the guilds to ensure he’d be granted a license, but he was the muck on the boot of every trader from the Unnamed Sea. Especially since he’d started sailing to Bastian. It was a movethat had earned him the disdain of every would-be trader from Dern to Ceros and he knew it. He was Narrows-born, but he wasn’t one of us.
“You know, that’s not the only thing they’re paying good coin for. The hull of theLunawill be leaking copper for months once I get to Ceros.”
This was how these talks usually went. Zola drawing attention to some obscure trade. Me pretending to show interest.
“What have you got yourself into now?”
I took the bait, because that was what I was supposed to do. Whatever he’d dragged back from Bastian had put a genuine glint of light in his eye. And if he was excited enough to brag about it, it might actually be something we should take note of. That was what had worked in my favor with Zola.
He leaned forward, brushing the sleeve of my jacket before he hooked his arm around my shoulders. Clove straightened beside me, hand drifting toward the knife tucked into the back of his belt. But Zola wouldn’t make a move here. Not for everyone to see.
“The kind of goods that no one ismaking.”
My brow furrowed as I studied him. The rye in his belly was most likely twisting his words. There was a tilt to both his voice and his shoulders that wasn’t typically there.
I shoved him off and he laughed, reaching for the bottle and refilling his glass.
“You’ve never had a sense of humor, Saint.”
“Maybe not,” I said, checking my watch.
We were set to leave at dawn but there was still work to be done tonight. Work we didn’t want anyone noticing.
