14

Arkhe smelled of salt, fish, and ink.

Ink occupied the port as thoroughly as the sea. Every crate bore a number. Every rope belonged to a company. Every person passing through the gates received a different mark according to whether they carried, sold, slept, or owed something.

Isolde received a yellow token.

“Temporary worker,” the guard said. “Three days. On the fourth, you register or leave the city.”

“What does registration cost?” she asked.

“Two crowns and a permanent address.”

“If I had a permanent address, I might not be looking for temporary work.”

The guard looked at the line.

“Three days.”

Kaoran received a blue token for bringing Bruma and declaring himself a farrier.

They had entered as Mara Venn and Oras Venn, father and daughter from an inland village.

Isolde had darkened her hair with walnut and indigo.

A false scar crossed her right eyebrow. She had put padding inside the shoe on her good foot to change her gait.

Stepping down the first stair, she put weight on her left too quickly; pain shot up to her hip.

Kaoran waited beside the token booth while she adjusted her stride.

She would have to conserve her strength before reaching the docks.

“Every identity makes you walk worse,” Kaoran said once they were through the gate.

“The next one will be a dancer.”

“The Guard will appreciate your staying on a stage.”

The port descended in terraces toward the sea. Grain warehouses and offices stood at the top. Taverns, workshops, and dormitories crowded the middle level. Below, six piers reached into gray water covered with sails, boats, and scraps of wood.

Isolde listened to the wind.

Rheskan had opened the bond near the sea. Months might have passed since the last signal. The salty smell brought pressure beneath her breastbone, though no pulse answered.

“Ilan and the other five first,” Kaoran said.

“Then the manifests.”

“Then Rheskan.”

Isolde looked at him.

“In that order?”

Kaoran pointed to the net market, where they were to ask for Aelyn’s packet.

“We can ask about them there.”

Isolde looked toward the market. She wanted Rheskan to feel her so close and come looking for her; she had spent the whole morning watching the rooftops for a passing shadow. At last, she took her eyes off the sky.

“Let’s find the packet.”

Aelyn’s packet had reached a candle seller named Rima Sol. They found it at the net market. Rima kept a tally of threads tied around her wrist. Three were black.

“I’m looking for candles for a journey west,” Isolde said.

“The west wind blows them out,” the woman replied.

It was the agreed phrase.

Rima closed her stall and led them to a workshop behind a saltworks. There, she opened a thick candle. Inside were the C-7 names, the routes, and a note from the civil affairs office.

“The six arrived four months ago,” she said. “They worked on pier five, repairing cargo cages. Two fell ill. One disappeared during a night shift. The others are in the Velaria company’s dormitory.”

“Ilan Deyr?” Isolde asked.

“He’s alive. He lost two fingernails and some hearing in one ear. The company says he owes for lodging, tools, and transport.”

“How much?”

“More than he earns.”

Rima pointed to the port plan.

“The cages go to western coves. The manifests declare salt or machinery. No one opens the cargo because it carries the commission’s seal.”

“Blue stone?”

“And chains. Thalos knows more.”

“Who is he?”

“A tidal pilot. He decides which ship comes in when the rocks are covered. The regency has been trying to replace him for a year and still needs him every night.”

“Does he trust the network?”

“He helps when he can keep the port open. You’ll have to explain what you’re looking for.”

Rima gave them workers’ tokens and an address. Before reopening her stall, she took Isolde’s wrist.

“Aelyn asks whoever finds the transferred workers to keep their names.”

“We have them.”

“Others are asking about a woman in a gray cloak. The councilor left that question out of the packet.”

Isolde turned her wrist to free her hand. The pressure had been slight; her body expected another turn of cloth, the knot Darian had finished tying while she asked him to let her go. Rima loosened her fingers as soon as she felt the movement.

“Tell me before you touch me,” Isolde said.

“I’m sorry.”

She waited for the woman to withdraw her hand. The workshop still smelled of wax and salt. She could answer from here.

“There are plenty of gray cloaks on the roads.”

“That’s what we’ve said.”

“Keep it that way.”

Rima studied the false scar, the glove, and the way Kaoran waited.

“The space is still empty,” she said.

Isolde nodded.

They found Velaria’s dormitory beside the oil depots. The windows were barred, and the door opened only at shift changes. An overseer checked tokens and deducted the cost of every meal.

Isolde presented herself as a sharpener. The man let her in after charging half a day in advance.

There were eighty beds in a room designed for forty. Damp covered the walls. Workers kept their belongings in bags beneath their mattresses. Some wore white bands around their arms: transport debt. Others wore blue: strategic contract, restricted departure.

Ilan was repairing a crate.

He raised his head when Isolde’s shadow fell across it. His hair was cropped close, his hands full of cracks, and a recent scar marked the skin behind his ear. His shirt rubbed the irritated skin of his neck.

“Your father is waiting for news,” Isolde said.

The hammer stilled.

“Who are you?”

“Someone who found his name on a route.”

“My contract ended.”

“Five months ago.”

Ilan looked at the overseer. The man was arguing with Kaoran over the price of a pair of scissors.

“I owe forty crowns,” he said.

“The C-7 contract covered lodging and transfer.”

“Here they say another one began when I arrived.”

“Did you sign it?”

“I made a cross. I had a fever and hadn’t eaten in two days.”

Isolde asked to see the copy. Ilan kept it inside his mattress. The paper authorized Velaria to recover any expense through port labor. It had no time limit. One clause allowed his transfer to affiliated facilities.

“Where are the other five?”

Ilan named Sero, Pell, Ulan, Meri, and Kes. Meri had fallen ill and worked in the kitchen. Sero disappeared during a nighttime loading. The others were still on pier five.

“They’re moving us tonight,” he said. “The overseer asked for new chains.”

“Where to?”

“Arvek cove. After that, no one knows.”

“Do you want to leave?”

Ilan looked at her as though the question hid another debt.

“What do you pay for?”

“The route to a safe house. Your father has to choose whether to leave Caleryon. I can also take evidence of the contract. I can’t give you the months back.”

“And the others?”

“Each one decides.”

Ilan folded the contract with his broken nails.

“I want to hear the route before I leave. And Meri needs to rest between stretches. If another bill turns up afterward…”

“Rima Sol will explain the shelters and who pays for each part. Ask her everything you’ve asked me.”

“Talk to them at the shift change.”

He put the copy back under the mattress, within reach. Isolde moved aside so he could finish the crate.

The port bell rang at noon. The workers went out toward the docks. Isolde and Kaoran mingled with them. Water struck the pilings. Wooden cranes swung over decks, lifting nets full of barrels.

Pier five was closed off by a movable fence. Behind it stood four cages covered with blue canvas. The air around them felt cold.

Ydrael answered from far away.

A chain inside the first cage carried his pain.

Isolde touched the red vein in a piling. The dragon showed her a route: open sea, the western coast, an entrance beneath cliffs, and a way back toward Cendral underground.

“They’re taking them west,” she said.

Kaoran studied the guards.

“Sixteen men. Two blue stones. One crane.”

“And six workers leaving tonight.”

Velaria’s overseer assembled the shift. He read twelve names, including the six from C-7 and another six from displaced families on the Plains.

Sero did not answer. Ilan looked at the gap in the line; the overseer checked the box anyway.

Eleven people stood before him. Isolde noted the difference along the edge of the contract.

“Temporary transfer,” he announced. “The company covers food and travel. The cost will be added to your accounts.”

Meri raised her hand.

“I’m sick.”

“The kitchen in Arvek needs staff.”

“The healer said I shouldn’t travel.”

“The company will ask him for another signature before you board.”

Two guards put a blue band on her. Meri looked about thirty. She coughed into a stained cloth.

Ilan looked at Isolde.

She had promised a choice. The transfer was beginning before she could speak to everyone.

“The C-7 contracts have ended,” she said aloud.

The overseer turned.

“Back to your station, sharpener.”

“The six from C-7 were assigned for six months. The civil affairs office is looking for their records.”

“Velaria has new contracts.”

“Signed under hunger and fever.”

“Signed.”

The pier supervisor, a man in a green coat, approached. He carried a recruitment seal.

“The port quota allows the enlistment of workers without steady employment,” he said. “The cargo leaves with the tide. Stand aside.”

The guards began chaining the eleven workers.

A crowd formed behind the fence. Recruitment happened every week. People watched, looked for familiar names, and kept working to keep their own from being next.

Isolde counted exits. Water to the south. Warehouses to the north. A crane overhead and oil two piers away. The wind pushed toward the city.

Her use of fire would be limited.

“Who agrees to the transfer?” she asked.

The supervisor laughed.

“The quota requires no agreement.”

“Let them answer.”

Ilan raised his hand.

“I refuse.”

Meri did the same. Pell, Ulan, and Kes followed. Four of the other six raised their hands. Two stayed still, looking at the ship as though the destination might be better than Arkhe.

“Nine refuse,” Isolde said.

“The full list goes,” the supervisor replied.