Easily, he switched his demeanor, a wry grin springing to his face. Ramson plucked the knife from the post and flipped it so the blade pointed at his new companion. “Well, Daya,” Ramson said, “you’ll find that politeness pays.” Another flick of his fingers and the knife switched sides, handle sticking out toward the bartender.
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I find that dead men pay even better.” She snatched her weapon from him and slipped it into a chain hanging loosely from her hips. Turning, she crooked a finger at him.
Ramson slipped the poster of the Red Tigress into the folds of his shirt and followed. Daya sashayed to an empty booth and plonked herself down. She took a swig from a bottle she’d swiped at the bar and surveyed him through heavy-lidded eyes. “So, word is there’s something you want from me.”
A quick twirl of his fingers, and a bag of coins appeared in his palm. Ramson jingled the fat leather pouch at her. “I’d prefer to think of it as a Trade,” he replied. “I’m a businessman. I don’t take without giving.” The bag vanished with another twist of his hand.
Daya let out a loud, long snort. “That’s the stupidest lie I’ve ever heard.”
“Truth, lies—it’s all just a matter of perspective,” Ramson replied pleasantly.
The girl cackled. “I like you,” she said. Her gaze roved to his now-empty hand. “But I like the sound of your money more. So, tell me. What is it that you want?”
Ramson tilted his head. “I never do business without knowing a bit more about my partners.”
The girl grinned at him. “Sure, I’m an open book,” she said cheerfully. “Daya of Kusutri. Set foot on a boat as a kid and never got off, never looked back. Made my days sailing. Business’s been bad here in the great Northern Empire lately, so, I’m sailing where the wind blows and where the goldleaves shine.” She raised her bottle of liquor at him before taking a swig.
The Crown of Kusutri was a small coastal kingdom neighboring Nandji, known for its skills in seafaring. Now that Ramson had a closer look at this girl, he noticed her skin was a shade darker than most people in Southern Cyrilia, her hair ink black and braided in the intricate hairstyles of some of the Southern Crowns. He heard, too, the subtlest difference to her intonation of certain vowels, the way someone tried to bury a foreign accent. Like his own.
He watched her carefully, taking in the shift of her linen shirt over her shoulders as she raised her bottle of liquor and took a swig. Peeking over her left collarbone was a tattoo: a woman with the sun haloing her head, rays of it spiking like a crown. Amara, the Kusutrian goddess.
At least this girl was honest.
Ramson leaned forward. “I’m interested in hearing more about your jobs to Bregon,” he said.
Daya raised a dark eyebrow. “What about them?”
“Specifically, what types of jobs you did for Alaric Kerlan.”
Her face tightened. “I know you,” she said softly, her gaze glinting as she traced over his face again. “Last I heard, you’d famously broken out of prison. Ghost Falls, was it?”
Ramson morphed his face into a wolfish smile. “Then you’ll know that I’m looking for Alaric Kerlan,” he said, “and willing to pay anything for his head.” He gave a delicate pause. “Unless you have any lasting loyalties.”
“I do have loyalties. My loyalties are to whoever pays me most.” Her eyes landed on his hands.
Ramson took the signal. Deftly, he slid the pouch of coin across the table to her.
Daya snatched the pouch, running it through her fingers. A wicked smile crossed her face. In the blink of an eye, the coins vanished. “Well, then, Portmaster,” she said. “You wanted to know about my jobs for Alaric Kerlan.” Daya cupped her chin with a hand. “My first job for him was well over eight years ago.”
“Eight—” Ramson bit down on his words. That would have been shortly after Kerlan was exiled by his father. What kinds of trades had Kerlan carried out back then? Ramson had always thought any jobs overseas had sprung up after his own involvement in establishing Goldwater Port as the hub of foreign commerce. “Never mind. Go on.”
“He needed ships that weren’t recognizable,” Daya continued. “Small and quick. Mine fit the bill perfectly.”
“What was he trading?”
“Ah,” Daya said. “See, that’s the thing. Alaric Kerlan was not trading anything back then. He was shipping people to Bregon.”
Ramson’s stomach tightened. “Human trafficking?”
“No, not in that sense.” Daya scratched her head. “Rather, hisownpeople. He had me bring members of his Order to Bregon, all on one-way tickets.”
Ramson’s mind was already spinning. “Do you know what he was doing with these men?”
Daya scratched her chin. “I think he has unfinished business in Bregon,” she said at last. “I’ve heard rumors of his exile…but I think he planted members loyal to him in Bregon. I think he still has men in Sapphire Port, awaiting his return.”
The world seemed to shift, like two pieces of a puzzle coming together to form a bigger picture. Ramson had thought that after Morganya’s takeover, Alaric Kerlan and his Affinite trafficking business would have been utterly destroyed, the Goldwater Trading Group crippled by this loss.
All this time, though, Ramson’s former master had been years ahead of the game, building up a network not only in Cyrilia but across the Whitewaves as well…in the largest Bregonian trading port.
