“It wouldn’t be significantly fresher, my lady,” Reynald told me.
I wrinkled my nose at the barrel. “And the whole barrel is pink salt? It is for my mother-in-law. It must be perfect.”
“Of course, my lady. The entire barrel is the best grade of pink salt. The calla resin seal proves it.”
He swept his fingers along the rim of the barrel, indicating a wax-like seal stamped with the Yolenta crest.
“You see, the seal is intact. Unlike wax seals that melt and flow when exposed to warmth, this resin seal will crumble if cut or heated. The full might of the Yolenta Family stands behind this barrel. The Keepers of Iron do not lie. When your mother-in-law’s chef opens it, the salt will be just as beautiful and fresh as the moment it was mined.”
I pondered the barrel. “Very well. How much is it?”
“The whole barrel?”
“Yes.”
“One grest, my lady.”
Ouch.
I nodded to Reynald. He reached into his clothes, pulled a single gold coin out, and handed it over to the seller. Our budget had just taken a big hit. Reynald gave the seller our address and we exited the warehouse and went back the way we came.
“Where to now?” Reynald asked.
“I need to see the pier in front of this warehouse, but I don’t want to be obvious about it.”
He considered it for a moment. “Follow me.”
At the next intersection, he started weaving his way through the streets, edging east. We walked for a couple of blocks, made a left, and came to a stone stairway leading up, its steps worn smooth by the salty wind, rain, and countless feet.
We took the stairs. Reynald kept pace with me.
The stairs kept going, climbing higher and higher, until finally we stepped onto a tall bridge guarded by a stone rail. It soared over the roofs of the harbor warehouses, mirroring the coastline.
Below and on our left, the ocean glittered, a placid expanse of blue, rolling to the hazy horizon. The wide ribbon of the stone wharf bordered the water, and long stone piers stretched from it, out into the ocean, flanked by large ocean-worthy trading ships. Between the piers, shorter wooden docks offered the smaller vessels a place to moor. The Combs, the city’s infamous main wharf.
A sparse current of people moved past us: fishermen with carrying yokes across their shoulders, balancing pails of water filled with fish; dockworkers hauling cargo in sacks; teenagers with shopping baskets running errands and carrying messages; a couple of young priests in robes with bladed staffs on their backs . . . Everyone had a place to be and was on their way there, minding their own business.
I knew where we were now. This was the Spotter’s Rampart, a chunk of the wall left over from the ancient fortifications. Most of them were long gone, swallowed by Kair Toren as it grew over the centuries. But this stretch of the old rampart proved useful, so the city kept it, and the Chamber of Works maintained it for the kingdom’s sake.
Reynald and I walked side by side, keeping close to the left rail, out of the way of other passersby. I scanned the ships and the flags flying from the tall masts. Copper, cobalt, and gray. Shouldn’t be that hard to find.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about the pink salt?”
“I’ll wait,” he said. “I’m demonstrating trust.”
Smartass.
I scanned the harbor as we walked. It was hard to tell the warehouses apart from this height, but the Yolentas would have one of the larger stone piers. They did a lot of trade.
We kept walking.
“What’s bothering you?” he asked.
“Why do you think something is bothering me?”
“You didn’t speak on the way to the docks, and then you almost walked into the ocean.”
I sighed.
