Nothing of spectacular quality or particular interest, Corayne noted, eyeing the haul.
Kastio followed her gaze, squinting out beneath his eyebrows. “Where from?” he asked.
Her smirk bloomed as quickly as an answer. “Salt from the Aegir mines,” Corayne said, all confidence. “And I bet you a cup of wine the olive oil is from the Orisi groves.”
The old sailor chuckled. “No bet—I’ve learned my lesson more than once,” he replied. “You’ve a head for this business, none can deny that.”
She faltered in her steps, her voice sharpening. “Let’s hope so.”
Another harbor officer waited at the end of the next pier, though the berth was empty. The soldiers with him looked half-asleep, wholly uninterested. Corayne fixed her lips into her best smile, one hand in her satchel with her fingers closed around the final and heaviest pouch. The weight was a comfort, as good as a knight’s shield.
Though she’d done this a dozen times, still her fingers trembled. A good day to begin a voyage, she told herself again. A good day to begin.
Over the officer’s shoulder, a ship came into harbor, sailing out of the cliff shadow. There was no mistaking the galley, its deep purple flag a beacon. Corayne’s heartbeat drummed.
“Officer Galeri,” she called, Kastio close behind her. Though neither wore fine clothes, clad in light summer tunics, leather leggings, and boots, they walked the pier like royalty. “Always a pleasure to see you.”
Galeri inclined his head. The officer was almost three times her age—nearing fifty years old—and spectacularly ugly. Still, Galeri was popular with the women of Lemarta, mostly because his pockets were well lined with bribes.
“Domiana Corayne, you know the pleasure is mine,” he replied, taking her outstretched hand with a flourish. The pouch passed from her fingers to his, disappearing into his coat. “And good morning to you, Domo Kastio,” he added, nodding at the old man. Kastio glowered in reply “More of the usual this morning? How fares the Tempestborn?”
“She fares well.” Corayne grinned truly, looking over the galley as she glided in.
The Tempestborn was bigger than the Tyri galleys, longer by half and twice as fine, with a ram better suited to battle than trade just below the waterline. She was a beautiful ship, her hull darkly painted for voyages in colder seas. With the turn of the season, warm-water camouflage would come: sea-green and sand stripes. But for now she was as shadow, flying the wine-dark purple of a Siscarian ship returning home. The crew was in good shape, Corayne knew, watching their oars move in perfect motion as they maneuvered the long, flat ship to the dock.
A silhouette stood at the stern, and warmth spread in Corayne’s chest.
She turned back to Galeri sharply, pulling a paper from her ledger, already stamped with the seal of a noble family. “The cargo listing, more of the usual.” For cargo not yet unloaded. “You’ll find accurate counts. Salt and honey, taken on in Aegironos.”
Galeri eyed the paper without interest. “Bound for?” he asked, opening his own ledger of notes. Behind him, one of the soldiers took to pissing off the dock.
Corayne wisely ignored him. “Lecorra,” she said. The Siscarian capital. Once the center of the known realm, now a shadow of its imperial glory. “To His Excellency, Duke Reccio—”
“That will suffice,” Galeri muttered. Noble shipments could not be taxed, and their seals were easy to replicate or steal, for those with the inclination, skill, and daring.
At the end of the pier, ropes were thrown, men leaping with them. Their voices were a tangle of languages: Paramount and Kasan and Treckish and even the lilting Rhashiran tongue. The patchwork of noise wove with the hiss of rope on wood, the splash of an anchor, the slap of a sail. Corayne could barely stand it, ready to jump out of her skin with excitement.
Galeri dropped into a shallow bow, grinning. Two of his teeth were brighter than the rest. Ivory, bought or bribed. “Very well, this is settled. We’ll stand watch, of course, to observe your shipment for His Excellency.”
It was the only invitation Corayne needed. She trotted by the officer and his soldiers, doing her best not to break into a run. In her younger years, she would have, sprinting to the Tempestborn with arms outstretched. But I am seventeen years old, nearly a woman, and the ship’s agent besides, she told herself. I must act like crew and not a child clutching at skirts.
Not that I’ve ever seen my mother wear a skirt.
“Welcome back!” Corayne called, first in Paramount, then in the half-dozen other languages she knew, and the two more she could attempt. Rhashiran was still beyond her grasp, while the Jydi tongue was famously impossible for outsiders.
“You’ve been practicing,” said Ehjer, the first crew member to meet her. He was near seven feet tall, his white skin covered in tattoos and scars hard-won in the snows of the Jyd. She knew the stories of the worst of them—a bear, a skirmish, a lover, a particularly angry moose. Or perhaps the last two were the same? she wondered before he embraced her.
“Don’t patronize me, Ehjer; I sound haarblød,” she gasped, struggling to breathe in his grip. He laughed heartily.
The pier crowded with reunion, the planks a mess of crew and crates. Corayne passed through, careful to note any new recruits picked up on the voyage. There were always a few, easy to spot. Most had blistered hands and sunburns, unaccustomed to life on deck. The Tempestborn liked to train their own from the waves up.
Mother’s rule, like so many others.
Corayne found her where she always did, half perched on the railing.
Meliz an-Amarat was neither tall nor short, but her presence was vast and commanded attention. A good quality for any ship’s captain to have. She scanned the dock with a hawk’s eye and a dragon’s pride, her task yet unfinished though the ship was safely in port. She was not a captain to laze in her cabin or flit off to the nearest seden to drink while the crew did the hard work. Every crate and burlap sack passed beneath her gaze, to be checked off on a mental tally.
“How fare the winds?” Corayne called, watching her mother rule over her galley kingdom.
From the deck, Meliz beamed, her hair free about her shoulders, black as a storm cloud. The faint smile lines around her mouth were well earned.
“Fine, for they bring me home,” she said, her voice like honey.
They were words spoken since Corayne was a child, barely old enough to know where her mother was going, when all she could do was wave with one hand and clutch at Kastio with the other. Not so anymore.
Corayne felt her smile flag, turning heavy. Her happiness curled at the edges, wearing away with nerves. Wait for your moment, she told herself. Promised herself. Not here, not yet.
The harbor officer ignored their cargo, mostly unmarked. He would not pry these open on the docks, but leave them be, undisturbed until they were far beyond the care of Captain an-Amarat and the Tempestborn. Corayne knew their contents, of course, for it was her job to find places to sell or trade them. It was all in her ledger, buried among false lists and true sea charts.
“Keep those at the end of the pier,” she said sharply, gesturing to a set of crates. “An Ibalet ship will dock alongside us before the morning is out, and they need to take their cargo quickly.”
“Do they?”