Page 19 of Saint
“Well, take your pick.”
His merchant’s ring glinted as he pointed to the far window, where a string of leather straps was hanging againstthe glass. The brass buckles weren’t even shined, and the color of the oiled leather ranged from the lightest gold to nearly black. I lifted onto my toes, running my fingertips down a belt that was a warm shade of red. The openings cut for the tools were even on both sides and I’d have to trim its length for it to fit around my hips, but as long as it didn’t slip under the weight of the metal, I could make it work.
I unhooked it from the string of others and set it down on the counter as the smith finished the tally. When he turned the parchment toward me, he pointed to the total sum of coppers I owed.
Forty-one. I almost wanted to laugh at the number. Zola had given me fifty coppers for the dredging gear and I’d been sure he was trying to cheat me. A full belt of tools of this quality in the Unnamed Sea would have cost me more than twice that.
I counted the coins from the purse and the smith raked them into a can under the counter without so much as a thank-you. I wouldn’t have thanked me either. The ports in the Narrows hated Saltbloods as much as they needed them. It was our coin that flowed through the port of Ceros, and our stones that filled the gem merchants’ shops. That copper was what funded the smiths, the shipwrights, the sailmakers, and even the fishermen and crofters. The Unnamed Sea needed the Narrows’ cheap grain. The Narrows needed the Unnamed Sea’s coin and their trade routes to reach outside of these waters. We were a teetering, precarious construct. A bridge on the verge of collapse. If you removed one piece, they would all come crashing down.
The smith disappeared into the back room and I laid the belt out before me, smoothing the flat of my palm over the length of the rough leather. The smell of the oil used to dye it was pungent in my nose, but that was what would keep it from being ruined from day after day in the water.
I methodically slipped the tools into the openings, arranging them in the order I preferred to reach for them. I’d developed my own system through the years, placing the picks and chisels based on frequency of use rather than their lengths like other dredgers. I could find what I was looking for without so much as glancing down.
When I was finished, I lifted the belt, weighing it in my arms. It was significantly heavier than my old one, but it wouldn’t take many dives for my legs to get used to it. And this belt was the only tether I had to a chance at starting over in the Narrows. Whatever came, I could dive. That was what I’d told myself as I stood in my mother’s study beneath my father’s portrait the night I left. It was the last thought I’d had before I knocked on Simon’s door.
I reached up to touch the purse that hung beneath my shirt. That memory wasn’t the only thing I’d taken with me. The ringing of the midnight hanging around my neck was a constant reminder of the moment I’d realized it wasn’t the sea that had taken my father. It wasn’t the reef or the tides or the turn of wind. It was Holland.
My father was a gem sage who gave up the work to dedicate his life to the humble craft of celestial navigation. But when it became clear that I’d inherited the gift, he turned his attention to my training. Every night, we sat on the floor ofmy bedroom and he meticulously taught me the language of the gems. Their names. Their colors. Their clarity. Most importantly, their song.
I was fourteen when I began working for my mother, traveling to the farthest reaches of the Unnamed Sea on her ships to dive with crews of men and women two and three times my age. More than once, I’d come close to finding my death on those reefs. But my mother was happy as long as I came home with gems. And when I got my first taste of what her approval felt like, that was exactly what I continued to do.
I hoisted the belt over one shoulder and stepped out onto the street, welcoming the weight of it. I’d felt too light without it, but now I had a sense of gravity about me. A distinct feeling of place. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel like myself again. That version of Isolde was gone. But the girl who’d only ever felt at home beneath the surface of the water was still there inside of me somewhere.
I made my way back toward the harbor, as promised, where Burke would be waiting. The small strip of shops in this part of the village were filled and the dockworkers were still unloading the inventories that had come in the night before. Smiths, shipwrights, and sailmakers were people that every port needed, no matter how small. With Dern sitting at the farthest you could get down shore before venturing into the waters of the Unnamed Sea, there was no shortage of traders stopping in on their way to and from Ceros. In another few years, I imagined, the port would look very different than it did now.
The top of theLuna’s main mast was visible in the harboras I walked down the hill. The slick cobblestones were still running with gray water from the morning’s rain, but the sea looked calm for the trip to Ceros. Zola would be finishing up his rounds with the merchants before we set sail, and he was in a hurry.
I took another step just as a hand shot out from behind the corner of the next building, taking hold of my jacket and wrenching me from the street. The belt slipped from my shoulder and the back of my head hit the stone wall, making me gasp as two stormy blue eyes appeared before me. Eyes that had glistened in the firelight of the tavern the night before.
It was the young helmsman with the crates of rye. The one who’d left the burn of his touch lingering on my skin.
Now his hands tightened on the opening of my jacket, firmly pinning me in place. “You scream, and it’ll be the last sound you ever make.” His voice was low and steady. Different than it had been when he gave me that name—Elias.
I tried to shove him back, but he didn’t budge. The unnerving, calm look on his face didn’t waver as his chin dipped down so he could look into my eyes. He was so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek.
“What do you want?” I spoke through clenched teeth.
“I want my gems back.”
I searched his face as I shrank even more heavily into the wall. The gems. In the rye bottles. Zola hadn’t wasted any time making his move, and there was no trace of a question or a guess in the helmsman’s voice. He knew that I knew, which meant I hadn’t imagined that look he’d given me in the tavern.
“I don’t have your gems,” I spat.
“Your helmsman does. And you’re going to get them back for me.”
“I have no idea what Zola does or doesn’t have. I’m just his dredger.”
A bitter smile appeared on his lips, making his eyes glint. “Is that all you are?”
I went still, my chest rising and falling between us in the silence. The sounds of the village felt far away now.
His hands suddenly loosened and he let me go. But he didn’t step back even an inch. He still looked down into my face and the resounding thought that kept circling in my head was that this didn’t feel the same as when Zola towered over me, letting his frame swallow mine. It was something else. And there was no doubt in my mind as he met my eyes that he knew. He knew what I was.
“I saw you in the tavern,” he breathed. “You’re a gem sage. It only took you seconds to figure out what was in those bottles and then you told your helmsman.”
I pressed my lips together, my face flashing hot at the sound of him calling Zolamine.But I didn’t deny the accusation. Something told me it wouldn’t do me any favors.
“I hope you at least negotiated a cut.”
