But she was not a child. And, one day, she would run Helm Naval, turning it into the most successful maritime logistics company this side of the Great Sea, and everyone who’d snubbed her would fucking know it.
The letter from her father was no more than his usual moaning about her, to his mind, overzealous behavior. Too pushy and rash in the deals she sought. No respect for tradition and the way Helm Naval had handled transactions for decades. And by the Goddess, Wembly, couldn’t he take her more in hand? Andrin Helm had his government image and contacts and asses to kiss down in Graelynd. His seat on one of the Council of Standards’ boards was not guaranteed against his younger daughter’s unruliness. The self-important twats in Central District couldn’t abide forward thinking.
Blah, blah, blah, that was the gist of it, anyway. Calya tossed the letter aside. She turned instead to the boxes next to the desk. A fine layer of dust had settled over the tops, for Calya hadn’t paid them any attention in months. Since she spent the majority of her time home in Grae Port, leaving the boxes in the Renstown office had kept them blissfully out of mind.
“At least you don’t have to send for them from storage somewhere,” Calya muttered to herself. The answers to the missing wards wouldn’t lie within, but if Brint was wheedling his way back onto the Avenor Guard board, perhaps one of his conspirators was buried amongst the pages.
The boxes mostly contained copies of the agreement terms and scads of the useless correspondence Brint had sent, back when they’d been working on their joint deal. Pages and pages of nonsense and incorrect or missing figures—all by design to further his subterfuge, she now knew.
A splash of green caught her eye. She withdrew a mangled sheet of paper, mindful of its crumbly old wax seal. It was stamped with a snowcapped mountain over an open book. Sylveren University’s seal once again. Green this time, for the earth magic department. The grovetenders, if she remembered correctly.
Between the poor condition of the paper and the cheap, faded ink that had been used, not to mention the cramped, slanted nature of the writing, Calya couldn’t make out much of the contents. It was mostly names of things she didn’t know, things like Rossala’s Tears and glimmergum and blighted vervain. They sounded like herbs or something one would point out in a highbrow garden, except for maybe the blighted one, but then, Central had had a phase where dark flowers were in vogue.
Following the list of flora were sets of numbers rather than a personal letter, with a sign-off that was more scribble than name. All she recognized of it was the vague shape of the letter M. A postscript was scrawled at the bottom, though the only words Calya could make out were “fortnight” and “SUSink.”
She sat back in her chair.
The joint protection deal and the specter of Brint Avenor. It just wouldn’t die. A shipment of Anadae’s wards requested by a distant team, neither recorded nor remembered, now missing, and no one knew why. And now this strange accounting from someone at Sylveren University hidden amongst frivolous paperwork.
Leaning forward again, Calya grabbed her pocket notebook and began scribbling a list of details to remember. Meeting with Wembly in the morning could wait. She wouldn’t be screwed over by Brint fucking Avenor again.
Chapter Four
The Renstown commissioner’s office was a bust. At least with regard to the amended shipping schedule and a box of errant wards, but Calya’s trip to the port proved useful in other ways. Perhaps the deity Jin, the Everflow, She of the Golden Waters, smiled upon Calya’s mission, for, late the evening before, a small but costly accident had occurred between some drunken Winterfest tourists up from Central District and one of the docked cargo ships. The port commissioner found himself with a number of time-sensitive shipments in need of new carriers, and Calya was happy to oblige. By late morning, she’d negotiated an extended berth for one of Helm Naval’s smaller windrunners on the condition that the ship depart in the next two days with cargo destined for the Landing.
As she left the office, Calya spied the black-and-gold livery of Avenor Guard on the dock. It was a small unit of a dozen, and though Calya didn’t recognize all of them, the last man off the ship noticed her and raised a hand in greeting.
“Lieutenant,” Calya called out in greeting.
The brown-haired man dismissed his unit with a casual wave before turning to Calya. “Miss Helm. I didn’t expect to see you here.” His gaze flickered skyward to the heavy clouds and their promise of inevitable rain.
It was standard weather for the Valley of Sylveren, but the Valley and the lingering spirit of the Child embodied by the land had a way of making the environment feel welcoming—or not. It had never cared for her, never claimed Calya, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit that the feeling was mutual. Renstown was a Valley town, but its size and location at the head of the river serving as the main route between the Valley and Graelynd made for a slightly less insular air.
“Seeing my sister,” Calya said. “A bit of business, that sort of thing.”
She’d known Orren Garr for most of their lives, he being only a few years her senior. They’d met several times over the years when he’d worked on joint contracts between their companies, though they’d never worked closely together. He came from humble means in Graelynd’s North District but had gotten an offer after being noticed by Brint on a small job. Orren had worked his way up from the dregs of Avenor Guard, earning his rank and a small team before the age of thirty. He might’ve worked for another company, but Calya could appreciate his drive.
“I thought you were doing coastal work?” she said as they slowly made their way up the dock and toward the town proper.
“Been some smuggling activity out on the Hook,” he said, referring to the tip of eastern Graelynd. “Got called in while we were working through the Bay. On leave until after Winterfest, then we’ll probably have river duty on our way back to the capital.”
They reached the head of the town square. Orren paused, glancing in the direction of the tavern before returning to Calya. “Would you care to join us, Miss Helm?”
He was good looking, in a very northern Graelynd sort of way. A little blockish, yet soft, with a big nose and brown hair that had a floppy quality for all that it was shorn short enough to curl around his ears. He had boyish charm. Not the type to hold her interest long-term, but perhaps…
Lowe’s gray eyes flashed through her mind.
Calya kept her sigh internal. She gave Orren an apologetic smile, her tone regretful as she said, “I’m afraid I have a meeting. Enjoy your leave.”
Orren nodded to her and they parted, him following his unit and Calya back toward the merchant offices. But the thought of verbally sparring with Wembly over her father’s complaints—which would only be worsened by her forging ahead with her deal to secure a ship for the Sentinels—had her detouring into the dockside market instead. She meandered down the row, idly looking over the vendors’ wares.
A windrunner had arrived while she and Orren spoke. As its passengers dispersed, some filtered through the market while others hurried down various streets. Burrowed into her fur-trimmed cloak as defense against the rising breeze, Calya’s vision was narrowed to the stall in front of her. A man passing by bumped into her hard enough to knock her into the table. He didn’t apologize, one hand fluttering in half-hearted acknowledgment as he strode on.
With a disgusted noise, Calya glared at his retreating back. She stamped after him. “Hey?—”
His voice cut over her as he gestured to get the attention of another man lurking at the end of the market row. The newcomer had his cloak hood pulled up against the weather, but Calya thought she glimpsed hair that was the near-white blond common in Rhell. Not an uncommon sight, given that the kingdom of Rhell neighbored the Valley and many of its mages had studied at Sylveren.
“…we were meeting on the ship?”
