Jane can’t see or feel it, but something in that statement is almost healing for Ritter.
A woman steps forward through the chaos of the market, wearing a worn woolen coat, yelling at passersby about her shells of a spotted snail and how she has tonics made from its venom.
My eyes trail to the back of Jane’s head, who watches the crowd alertly. Once, I would have thought the precaution unnecessary—not with how her safety seems to matter more to my magic than my own life. But now I know that it’s nearly impossible to spot the blank spaces in a giant crowd unless I’msearchingfor them.
Anyone could be an issue, and I don’t have time to decipherwho.
We just need to get to the harbor.
Jane continues to glance at her father as we move, eyeing his shoulder like she’s worried she didn’t do enough. Well, I guess I have to protect the old fucker, too, for Jane’s sake.
He can’t die on my watch, not until this is all in the past and Jane’s heart is healed from everything that’s happened to her. Not until I’m so entrenched in her soul that my presence willalwayssoothe her.
A black banner with the pirating skull is visible once we round a street corner, hanging above a wooden walkway. Skulls dipped in gold hang on the side of the pillars, along with ropes and netting.
I fucking hate pirates, so goddamn unreliable and backstabbing in nature. Like the cunt who raped my mother to make me.
Thank the gods, he was a pirate of another coast, so I don’t have to come across the flag he sailed under because I can’t miss a step right now. The scent of saltwater is so strong that it overrides my annoyances—getting away from herealsomeans getting away from the pirates in this bay; I’d rather be among a crew I know. And that water is our best chance of freedom, even if it comes with the assaulting smell of fish.
Right before we pass underneath the banner, we’re upon an exotic trader of cloaks—silks, fine wool, and embroidered cotton. I grab a thick wool cloak as if it’s free. “Jane,” I say. She slows to look back at me, and I hand it to her. “To keep warm and cover your hair.”
Relief floods her more than her eyes reveal, and she’s quick to throw it over her shoulders. I can even hear someone yelling about their cloak behind me, but unless they’re willing to fightme, it’s as good as gone. When the path hikes up, and we crest at the top…
The ocean’s horizon is clear in view.
We’re at the very top of a monstrous wooden construction that reminds me of a god having to make a city out of broken piers and ships, one who has no concept of how even surfaces work. Down below the weather-beaten cliffs, after what will be a difficult descent to navigate, is an inlet of sails and ships, and we must be fifty stories above seawater.
Magic pulses faintly through its bones, as if daring gravity to intervene, buildings overhanging each other.
I can see a crevice that splits the cliffs. That will lead to the entrance for the docks—it’s a shadowy gorge with rope bridges crisscrossing the chasm, the Underdeck. “Let me lead from here,” I command the few in front of me. “Jane, stay very close behind me.”
I move in front of her, because these peers can arguably be more dangerous than the city, like roaming alone on Carver’s or the Undercroft.
Tempest’s ship sits out at sea, near the harbor, clear even from here—the infamous Sea Wolf. To many who frequent these piers, that ship is a status symbol of the most elite pirates, a life’s goal to sail among it. I can imagine the details of the wolf’s head at the front of the hull, the paint worn from all the trips. It’s one of the only ships that can handle the Black Sea without losing a single sail, let alone escaping with a crew that survives.
If it’s at sea, then we have to catch one of the longboats that will take us to her, and then we can get the fuck out of here.
Descending swiftly is risky at best, everything fucking uneven or worn and slick. The planks creak underfoot like they’ll splinter at any moment. More than once, I turn around for Jane, offering my hand for stability so we don’t slow the momentum.She’s the only one here who hasn’t been to these ports, and navigating the rickety platforms requires experience.
Our hurried steps take us past a large structure that looks like the rest of it merges deep into the cliffside, the energy changing as we’re forced to weave through a cluster of nosy pirates—cotton shirts hang loose over tattooed bodies, cutlasses glinting at their hips. The already narrow walkways are hemmed by multi-tiered shanties stacked haphazardly on top of each other, and these assholes are blocking the only clear way forward, one of them with a wooden pegleg.
They don’t hide their curiosity, or their disdain.
“You seem to be—” one of them starts, his voice dripping with mockery.
I simultaneously unsheathe both my swords, not slowing down. When my gaze connects with the man, his confidence crumbles like wet sand, his posture wilting as he steps to the side, and the others follow in discontent.
“He’s covered in blood, don’t be a fuckwit,” one says to another.
A greasy pirate looks at Jane, or at least, I can tell one of them is eyeing someone behind me with more interest than I care to feel. As soon as I give him my full attention, swords still in hand, he throws his hands up to show they’re empty and swiftly backs away, averting his gaze down.
That’s fucking right.
This pattern repeats as we move through to the misty Underdeck, especially passing one of the lodges that’s filled with hammocks, even out on the deck; the place is layered with marauders and outlaws. Some are more finely dressed in a cocky display of confidence that no one will try to steal the clothes off their back. Even the brothel is questionable, like the lot is about to seduce their way into our pockets, the perfume that saturates their building as potent as the scales in a fish market.
We’re getting closer.
The journey feels endless, every step carrying what feels like a hundred prying eyes. We finally make it to one of the lowest levels. Adjacent to our pathway is a small, oceanic river in one of the crevices of the stony cliffs. The towering harbor now is completely above us, their surfaces dotted with glowing lanterns and windows. Rounding a corner, I glance up to see a sign hanging on rusty hinges, denoting a market for fishing hooks.
