“Why?” His words were quick, urgent. “What is he planning in Bregon?”
Daya shook her head. “Beats me. I took care not to eavesdrop or show any interest in his business. Had a feeling Kerlan wasn’t the type to leave loose trails. I only did a few jobs for him. Seems like bad luck to associate with this man.”
“You aren’t wrong,” Ramson said.
Daya leaned forward. “Though,” she added, “therehasbeen word of new activity on his end here in the black markets…”
“I’m listening.”
“Well.” Daya jingled her pouch of coins suggestively. “I could use a little more…persuasion.”
Ramson put his chin in his hands, mirroring her pose. “How about a job?”
It was an old trick in negotiating, but Ramson found that it always worked: to throw them the bait before offering the fish. The key was to set the other party’s expectations lower than what you planned to offer, so that they were more willing to accept once you put forth your actual proposal.
Daya had the look of a fish on a hook. “What type of job?”
Ramson looked to the ocean, which was beginning to sparkle under the morning sun as though it held a thousand tiny, fractured diamonds. The water here was a stunning cobalt blue, and no doubt ruthlessly cold. It was a sight that he’d grown to like, and one that, he found, he wasn’t quite ready to part with just yet.
He drew a breath. “You give me the information I need, and I’ll hire you for a trip to Bregon.” He reached out and plonked the second pouch of coins in the middle of the table. It landed with a considerably heavierthud.
Daya licked her lips. “I think we’re about to be great friends,” she said, and then lowered her voice. “Rumor has it that Alaric Kerlan brokered a new Trade deal—a trafficking scheme to Bregon.” She gave him a pointed look. “Affinitetrafficking.”
Ramson considered. Olyusha had said Kerlan’s new schemes had something to do with a new development concerning Affinites. This could certainly fit the bill.
“I’ve been watching the ports,” Daya continued, “and I’ve seen unmarked ships set sail at night. I can confirm I’ve seen people board those ships after dark…and I can confirm that the last of them left several days ago with Kerlan on board. If you want to catch him, we need to move quickly.”
Ramson hesitated. Why would Kerlan begin an Affinite trafficking scheme to Bregon? More important, who on the Bregonian side could be the buyer of such a transaction? The militaristic kingdom of his birth was not one that particularly cared about the magen, its population of Affinites.
He had a feeling that the conspiracy ran deeper, but for now, one thing was clear. If he wanted to find his former master, the answers lay in Bregon.
A weight settled in Ramson’s chest. From the folds of his shirt, he drew out the piece of parchment, smoothing it out against the warming wood of the table between them. If he left now, they might never meet again.
But he couldn’t afford to wait forever.
He tapped his fingers to the painting. “Any idea what thisis?”
Daya raised a dark eyebrow. “You want to be careful who you show that to. They say the exiled princess was spotted at the Imperial Inquisition in Novo Mynsk.”
Ramson’s grip on the parchment tightened. “Do you know who made this, and where I can find them?”
“Nope. I’ve only heard rumors that people are rallying to her name. Times are hard, with the new Empress. You’ve heard that she’s persecuting non-Affinites. I fled the north just in time, Amara bless.” She shuddered. “Not a bad time to get out of this empire, Portmaster.”
Ramson looked to the sea. He thought of Shamaïra’s painting, with the gold and the water and the slash of red in the midst of it all. He’d thought that was a sign for him, that he would find Ana again in Goldwater Port, that, by some miracle or twist of fate, their destined paths would continue to intertwine.
He held up the poster of the Red Tigress. Beneath the sun and golden haze of waves, the image of her scarlet cloak on the poster cut a streak of bright red against the scenery, an almost-perfect rendition of Shamaïra’s painting.
Perhaps signs were for fortune-tellers or fools after all.
Ramson blinked. And blinked again.
There, outlined against the warm morning light of the sun, was a shadow, fast approaching. Too large to be a gull.
He was on his feet, his boots thudding across the deck of the Black Barge, until he reached the wooden quay. A startled laugh burst from him as he lifted an arm.
The snowhawk landed on his shoulder, talons biting into the thick leather of his coat. It regarded him with intelligent golden eyes, the wind ruffling its snowy feathers.
“Gods be damned,” Ramson said softly, and then his gaze latched on to the object in the bird’s beak. The lock of black hair glistened like silk in the morning sun, and the entire world seemed to shift.
