Graylin followed Symon and his escorts out onto the beach. Men and women bustled about. Crates were piled at the pool’s edge. Along the cliff walls, overhung by a lip of rock, rose a ramshackle wooden village. It stacked haphazardly upward, traversed by ladders, wooden steps, swaying bridges, and rope pulleys. A merriment of drums, pipes, and strings carried from there, along with rough laughter, shouts, and barked orders. The place hung with smoke from scores of stone hearths and sizzling iron braziers.
He and Symon headed across the strand toward the pile of crates alongside the pool. As they passed, heads turned, barely showing any interest—then turned again, upon spotting the pair of vargr trailing the laden wagon. People froze. Children were tugged behind parents. A few of the bravest risked stepping closer; most retreated back warily.
A loud voice cut through the thunder and bustle. “Here with you!”
Graylin turned from the village to the high stack of crates and barrels. A tall figure swept through the men working there and strode forward to meet them. He wore a dark blue half-cloak that flagged behind him. It matched his tunic and breeches, which looked to be belted in eelskin, with calf-high boots of the same leather.
He wore a huge smile that Graylin did not trust.
No one is that happy.
Symon slid from his mare and gave the man a big hug and a slap on the back for good measure. “Well met, Darant.”
The two spoke for a bit, catching up, speaking about the weather and rumors of war.
Graylin used the time to size up the stranger, who, according to Symon, led one of the rough clans that made this shattered coast their home. The brigand’s hair, cut to the shoulder and loose, was so black that it appeared nearly blue, a close match to his clothing. His eyes were black diamonds, glinting from the salt-scoured hard planes of his face, which he kept clean-shaven.
Graylin tried to surmise his age. The pirate appeared to be a few years younger than him, but he could easily be a decade older. It was something about his eyes that seemed to age him. But Graylin paid particular attention to the two swords at his waist. The scabbards were too thin, tellingly so.
Whipswords.
Such Klashean blades were as thin as his finger at the hilt and stretched to a point so fine as to be nearly invisible. The steel was crafted by alchymists in some arcane method that made the swords nearly unbreakable, yet still flexible. In the hands of Klashean sword-dancers, they could transform from piercing steel to thrashing whips in a blink. Only the truest masters dared to wield two at the same time.
Graylin took this fact into account about the pirate.
Despite the ongoing banter, Graylin knew Darant was appraising him as well. His dark eyes flicked toward him, taking in much with each glance. The brigand’s face was unreadable, a mask of merriment. The only break was when Aamon and Kalder hopped onto the wagon and set about sniffing the dried slabs of salted game. As Darant eyed them, something darker broke through his bright demeanor, then just as quickly it vanished.
Finally, Symon turned and pointed at Graylin. “This is the man who needs passage to Hálendii.”
“To Havensfayre, you mean,” Darant corrected. “While I might only be a seafaring man, I know that town is farther afield than the coast.”
Graylin glanced sharply at Symon. How does this brigand know my final destination?
Symon ignored his expression. “True,” he admitted to Darant, and handed the man a folded paper. “Here is a list of all the goods we have to barter. The load should easily fetch two gold marches and a fistful of silver eyries, more than enough for passage on your swiftest ship.”
“My swiftest ship?” He cocked a brow at Symon. “She’s already underway, mark my word. But I’ll be the judge if this bill of sale suffices.”
Graylin stewed as the brigand inspected the list. Darant eyed the wagon every now and then, as if making sure what was written matched what was loaded. Graylin had no fear of any discrepancies. He would not cheat the man.
With a final harrumph, Darant lowered the sheet and reached an assessment. “I also want the pony.”
Graylin stiffened, glancing over the rump of his stout beast. He had bought the pony four winters back and could find no fault with the animal. The plan was for Symon to guide the pony and wagon over to Savik and stable the horse until Graylin could return.
If I return.
“Hold on,” Symon said. “That’s no slouch-backed nag. That’s a pure Aglerolarpok in his prime. He’s worth as much as what’s in that wagon and the wagon itself.”
Darant shrugged, crossed his arms, and waited.
Symon glanced toward Graylin, leaving the decision to him.
“Done,” Graylin said.
“Mes wondres,” Darant said in Klashean, and clapped his hands smartly and held his palms toward them, declaring the deal done.
Symon shook his head, and Graylin glanced toward the river flowing to the sea, anxious to be underway.
Darant cleared his throat. “Now to the true identity of my cargo. You’re Graylin sy Moor, I believe.”
Graylin whipped around so fast, his neck pinched with pain. He glared at Symon, but the alchymist looked equally shocked.
Darant merely smiled, his expression just as merry, but maybe a tad harder. “You are not the only one who trades in secrets, Symon. The clans also have eyes and ears across this coast. We collect secrets and keep them as preciously as jewels. It was not hard to discern who arrived under a false name. Especially with two vargr in tow and needing passage under such secrecy. Do not count me a fool.”
Symon sagged.
Graylin’s heart pounded, his face burned with fury. “What do you want for your silence?”
Darant shrugged. “Nothing you don’t have plenty of. I’m sure you can spare one.”
Graylin’s fists tightened on his reins, knowing what the bastard would say next.
“I want one of your vargr,” Darant confirmed. “I’ll let you pick which one.”
Never.
He glanced over his shoulder to his two brothers. The pair were as much a part of his heart as what beat in his chest. “Anything else but one of them,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Fair enough,” Darant said. “What else do you have to trade instead?”
Graylin shifted his palm to the sword lashed to the back of the wagon’s seat. Heartsthorn had been in his family for countless generations. But it was just steel. Apparently, Darant thought so, too.
“I have no need for another blade,” the pirate said. “And if you draw it, I will prove the two I carry are more than a match for your one.”
Graylin withdrew his hand.
Symon stared up at him with pained, apologetic eyes. Graylin remembered the alchymist’s earlier admonishment in dealing with this man: Darant will honor a pact, insomuch as the reward outweighs the price of a betrayal.
Graylin knew he needed the brigand’s loyalty, no matter the cost.
He turned to his brothers in the wagon. Amber-gold eyes stared back at him. Though it tore his heart, he answered while never breaking their gaze. “Done,” he said. “But I will choose which one, as you offered.”
“So be it.”
Graylin turned back to the pirate, binding the man to the only cause that was worth this price. “But only when I return. Until then, they remain mine.”