like Cadis, but Findain was a market hub full of merchant ships, and the Findish caroused with everybody—the city had all types. Iren’s short black hair wasn’t the calling card here that it was in Meridan.
The man turned from inspecting the moorings. “Only on my ship.”
He held a ship’s log, on which he took notes. His fingers were steady. He was no poppy eater.
“We’re close enough,” said Iren. An attempt at familiarity.
“What can I do for you?” No smile. Iren would have normally liked the guy if she didn’t need something from him.
“I hear you’re the one to speak with about passage.”
“On the Queen’s Constance?”
“To Corent.”
“We’re a cargo ship.”
“I can feed myself. I can crew if you let me.”
“We’re not a passenger ship.”
He eyed her with suspicion. Iren had never been so reckless. She had little choice. She felt uncomfortable in Findain. Always watched.
Severed from her intelligence network.
She hadn’t written or received a message from her mother since the attack.
She had assignments. In case of emergency, rendezvous at Takht-e-Malin. They had a safe house in the port city. An old landlord kept it supplied with food for ten years, and tended the birds. Iren would release the birds up the mountain, to the academy spires.
Her mother would come.
But first she needed a single Fin willing to take her. “I have money,” said Iren. A mistake.
The captain returned to his tablet.
“I don’t take bribes, miss.”
She had stumbled upon the most upright sailor in the entire captains’ guild. Iren turned and walked back to the alleys.
For two days she had stalked the taverns on the dock. The eavesdropping, the sneaking, that was easy. But ships upriver were rarer these days. The tariffs imposed by Meridan were too high.
Captains were on edge. Merchant nobles called off the expeditions until the specter of war passed.
The hard part for Iren was all the talking. The chummy nature of the Fins, who seemed to think one had to be a friend in order to do some business.
Most of them knew she was Corentine just by the discomfort. She didn’t understand why Fins needed so many friends. This wasn’t the time to take foreign stowaways on board, they said.
The Queen’s Constance was the last chance. Iren cursed under her breath.
She turned on her heel and walked back down the dock. The captain must have been in his third pass of the ship’s log. He didn’t look up.
Iren searched for words. “You’re diligent.”
“Mmm,” said the captain.
Iren croaked out another compliment. “You must be well regarded among your peers.”
“I suppose.” He still read.
Iren was finished with the niceties. “Look. I understand you won’t take me.”
“Good.”
“Because we’re not bosom friends.”
“Because you have trouble written all over you.”
“Nothing is written all over me.”
“Very well.”
“If you’re an honest man, then I would send a letter.”
“I’m no shinhound.”
“Please,” said Iren. She placed a small parcel including an encrypted letter and her signet ring onto the ledger the man read. Next to it she placed a bag of silver.
The man sighed.
“That’s the most I’ve begged anyone,” said Iren. “There’s a woman, a landlord. She keeps a flat on the riverfront. Ask anyone for Dokhtar Zafira.”
“Dokhtar Zafira,” said the man.
“I wrote it on the parcel.”
The captain nodded. Iren turned and walked away. The captain reminded her of her father, sentimentalist that he was. The king of Corent, off to be medic, on the front lines. Honor-bound. Dead.
The captain would deliver to Zafira.
Zafira would see the ring and send the parcel immediately to Queen Malin in the capital. Her mother would decrypt the message—a brief of all that had happened.
Iren walked up the alley toward the Odeon. The streets were alight with torches, and crowded. Taverns disgorged their diners toward the theaters. Jugglers and bards played at the entrances to welcome guests.
Iren moved through the crowds like a wind-swept leaf. The signet ring was the last piece of evidence that she was heir to the Corentine spires.
She was alone.
A pack of children surrounded her in a plaza. They offered trinkets and a shoeshine. Iren waded through them. A juggler in front of a theater shouted to her, “Careful, miss. They’ll pick your pocket.”
As Iren passed by, she dropped a handful of souvenirs and a few coppers into the juggler’s upturned hat. “I picked theirs,” she said.
She liked the sound he made.
“Whoa.”
She liked being alone.
She was the shade scarab. A creature grown in the darkness. In Corent the magisters kept the vicious things in cages at the very tip of the spires—where they would get the least