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?”
Meliz descended from her sailcloth-and-saltdeck throne, a smile tugging at her lips. She was never far from a smirk or a laugh. Today she looked wrought in bronze, her skin darkened by the sun while the flush of a successful voyage colored her cheeks. Her mahogany eyes sparkled, made more striking by a line of black along her lids.
“Answer well, Daughter.”
Corayne squared her shoulders. She’d grown this last year and could look her mother in the eye now. “The furs will go on to Qaliram.”
Meliz blinked, her full, dark brow curving into splendid swoops. There were three tiny scars over her left eye, the lucky cuts of an opponent with poor aim.
She took her daughter by the arm, urging her to walk. “I did not know the Ibalets had need for fox and sable in the Great Sands.”
Corayne didn’t blame her for the skepticism. Ibal was mostly desert. Fur from the north would certainly not fetch a favorable price. But she had her reasons.
“Their royal court has taken a liking to their mountains,” she said lightly, pleased with herself. “And with all that desert blood, well, they’re not likely to stay warm without our help. I’ve made my inquiries; it’s all arranged.”
“I suppose it won’t be terrible to have contacts within the royal family of Ibal.” Meliz’s voice dropped. “Especially after that misunderstanding in the Strait last winter.”
A misunderstanding that left three sailors dead and the Tempestborn near sinking. Corayne swallowed back the bitter taste of fear and failure. “My thoughts exactly.”
Meliz pulled her closer. After nearly two months left behind, Corayne basked in the attention. She brushed her head against her mother’s shoulder, wishing she could embrace her properly. But the crew were all around them, busy in their work, dedicated to the ship and her needs, with Galeri observing from the edges, more nosy than official.
“You know you have some of that desert blood,” Meliz said. “On my side, of course.”
Despite the warmth of her mother’s arm, Corayne felt a cold ripple of unease in her belly. “Among others,” she muttered. There were many conversations she wanted to have with her mother. My bloodline is far from one of them.
Meliz looked over her daughter again. It was a poor subject to return home to, and she navigated away from it. “Very well, what else have you lined up for me?”
Corayne heaved a breath, both relieved and eager to impress. She held her ledger open to show pages cramped with delicate, deliberate writing. “The Madrentines will be at war with Galland soon enough, and they’ll pay best for weaponry.” She allowed herself a small smile. “Especially Treckish steel without entanglements.”
The metal was valuable, both for its durability and the close control Trec kept over its export. Meliz shared in her delight.
“All this you learn in Lemarta?” she mused, raising an eyebrow.
“Where else would I learn it?” Corayne said sharply, her skin growing hot. “We’re a port city as much as any. Sailors talk.”
Sailors talk; travelers talk; merchants and guards and the tower watchmen talk. They talk loudly and often—lying, mostly. Boasting of lands they’ve never seen or great deeds they’ll never accomplish. But the truth is always there, beneath, waiting to be sifted free, specks of gold among sand.
Captain an-Amarat chuckled in her ear, her breath cool. Her mother smelled of the sea; she always smelled of the sea.
“Do any talk to you?” she needled, intention clear. She glanced at the old sailor who spent his days guarding her daughter. “Kastio, how fares my daughter with the boys?”
A jolt of embarrassment licked down Corayne’s spine. She slapped her ledger shut with both hands and drew away, flushing red. “Mother,” she hissed, scandalized.
Meliz only laughed, unbothered and accustomed to her daughter’s discomfort.
“Oh, come now. I was your age when I met your father,” she said, putting a hand on her generous hip, fingers splayed over her sword belt. “Well, a year older. I was your age when I met the girl before your father. . . .”