“I seek a night crew,” Storne said, lowering his voice just enough for the mist to swallow it.
“For lemons?” The sailor’s grin was full of gaps. “Or for tigers?”
“Black-tipped tigers,” Storne answered.
That stilled the old man’s hands.
He eyed Storne hard, then spat into the sea.
“Try a few slips down. You’ll find the sort that don’t ask names.”
Storne inclined his head, pushing off the piling.
As he moved through the mist, he palmed the pipe away, clipped an insignia to his chest, and tugged the collar wide to reveal his pointed ears and clean-shaven face. His stride shifted—steadied, then pitched—until he looked every bit the officer drunk off duty.
“Inattentive sirs!” he barked, stumbling toward a cluster of sailors bent over their crates. “Best keep sharper eyes—or someone will walk off with half your cargo.”
One of them scoffed without looking up. “Shove off, Commandant. Castle’s that way.”
Another muttered under his breath, “Stupid elf.”
The word caught like a splinter, but Storne only smoothed his coat and straightened, then pretended to lose his balance.
“Tell me again which way. The Windtorn Sails bled me dry, and now I’m wandering like a fool.”
“Go back to the tavern,” one said, still annoyed. “Try Belle. She’ll set you straight.”
Storne hauled himself upright, brushing off his coat with sloppy dignity.
“Belle, yes. Looking for Belle.”
He swayed, then lowered his voice, sly.
“You lot don’t fancy a taste of Halyon wine, do you?”
That caught them. Heads turned.
“I seized a whole pallet yesterday,” he said, conspiratorial, lips curving as though sharing sin. “I could bring some by tonight. A gesture of thanks.”
The lead sailor tilted his chin. “Settler’s Den. One hour to midnight.”
Storne wobbled a bow. “Settler’s Den.”
He stumbled away, shoulders hunched.
But once the dock curve broke him from their sight, his spine straightened, pipe vanished into his coat, and the mask dropped clean. Behind a stack of barrels, his own men waited.
“I’ve stationed a crew in Rynesport to receive the munitions,” he told them, voice cutting through the fog.
“You’ll take the ship at midnight—powder, steel, everything she forbade.”
His eyes moved from face to face.
“If Zeporah learns of it, none of you return.”
The fog swallowed them whole, leaving only the echo of command—and the promise that dawn would find a war already set in motion.
Chapter Seventeen
