Page 10 of Saint
“It’s no different than any other deal we’ve done,” Clove said, reading my mind. His fair eyelashes caught the light as he rolled the block of red wax over the flame of the candle on the table.
I dropped the first set of twelve into the open bottle before me. The stones were never traced back to us because, technically, we didn’t exist. We weren’t traders or merchants and no one knew where the rye came from, so it couldn’t betracked that way. Even so, we were stretching our luck after almost two years of being a courier for the Roths. If Henrik was right and there were rumors about theAster,we were running out of time.
The gems sank down to the bottom of the rye, disappearing in the dark liquid. When I was finished with the last of them, I replaced the corks and leaned forward, letting Clove drip the softened wax in a steady stream over the neck of each bottle. The wax lightened as it cooled on the glass, and he rotated it with a steady hand three times until the cork was resealed.
“So? Who do you think’s talking?” Clove blew out the candle, setting both elbows on his knees.
My eyes lifted to meet his. “Gerik?”
“I don’t think so. If we disappear, so does the coin we give him,” Clove said skeptically.
“Maybe someone else is willing to pay him more.”
His mouth flattened. He was likely thinking the same thing I was. Of all the helmsmen in the Narrows trying to set up their own trading operations, Zola was the only one I’d ever worried about. He was brash and quick to take whatever opportunity came his way, lacking the loyalty to these waters that other helmsmen had. That was how he’d ended up the errand boy for a handful of Saltblood traders in Bastian. It was a job I wouldn’t do for an entire cargo hold full of coin.
“Zola’s not a fool. He knows we’re up to something,” I said.
He’d been watching us more closely over the last six months and I was sure he knew we’d petitioned for a tradelicense. But there was no way he expected us to be able to pay for one. Not when we sailed the likes of theRiven.I was also sure he’d petitioned for his own license, and as long as he had the coin, he had every chance of getting it.
I’d told myself that more Narrows-born traders could only be a good thing. Without them, the Narrows Trade Council would never stand against the Unnamed Sea. But Zola’s allegiances weren’t to the Narrows. They were to himself.
Clove lifted the empty crate onto the table and marked the corner of the wood with the remaining wet wax in a straight line. It was the only identifying marker we used to track the gems among the dozens of crates we moved at each port.
“All right. Let’s get out of here.” I put the last bottle inside and stood, slinging the map case across my back.
Clove stacked one filled crate on top of the other and lifted them against his chest, waiting. The tavern had only gotten busier as the night drew on, but no one was going to look twice at a rye delivery, especially a regularly scheduled one.
I unlocked the door, letting it swing open before I picked up the other two crates and started down the hall. It was an unusually cold night and the fire was already stacked up, making the air feel dry in my throat.
As soon as we made it to the bottom of the stairs, the barkeeper drifted down the counter toward us, turning a clean glass through the towel in his hand. I set down the crates on the stool beside me and held the key to the door up between us.
He tucked it into his pocket. “Three weeks?”
“Three weeks,” Clove answered.
“That rye isn’t lasting that long these days.”
“I’m sure a little water will fix that,” Clove said under his breath.
The barkeeper ignored the accusation. He didn’t have to admit it for it to be true. There wasn’t a barkeeper in the Narrows who didn’t do the same thing.
“Rosamund says there’s talk about the build she’s working on. That true?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?”
The barkeeper’s tone didn’t change, but his grip on the glass tightened just enough for me to notice. The quickest way for him to get a knife in the back was to start repeating the rumors he heard at that counter.
“The less curious people are about what’s in that pier, the more likely it is I keep showing up with your rye,” I reminded him.
That got his attention. He set the glass on the stack behind him, tossing the rag over his shoulder.
“Who’s talking?”
His chin dipped down, his voice lowering. “That fool apprentice Ros has got.”
Clove’s gaze locked on mine, and he cursed under his breath.
Nash.
