Chapter 1: The Shadow on the Sun

Nico

The stern bench of the Sans Souci radiates the noon heat directly through the teak. Under my shoulder, the wood is hot enough to burn, the oil in the planks smelling of old pine and tar.

A girl whose name I forgot to ask three hours ago lies across my chest. Her skin is hot, damp where it presses against mine, smelling of coconut oil and salt. One of her breasts is squashed flat against my ribs, the nipple a dark, stiff point against my collarbone. I let my hand rest on the curve of her hip, the bone prominent and smooth under my palm. She does not move, asleep or pretending to be, her breath shallow and warm against my neck. Every swell of the bay pushes her pelvis against mine, a heavy, repeating pressure I am too lazy to resolve.

The wind off the water is the only clean thing in Seravalle. It carries the smell of lemons from the upper terraces and the heavier stink of low tide from the docks below. On the deck table, a platter of figs and salt-cured ham has sat too long under the sun. The edges of the ham are curling, turning grey and dry, while a line of tiny black ants tracks across the silver rim of the platter. Sweat on the wine bucket has dripped into a pool around the base. I reach out, my arm heavy with heat, and drag a finger through the pool. The water is lukewarm.

Across the boards, Signor Ferrara is a monument to accomplished nothing. Sandro lies on his back with a straw hat over his face, one foot dangling over the gunwale, his toes dipping into the green water every time the yacht rolls. He has not shifted in an hour.

Monsieur Beaumont, however, is full of unnecessary energy. Théo shouts from the bow, high-pitched and earnest, locked in his third argument of the day with the first mate. They are debating the proper way to tie a fender. The mate is ignoring him with the quiet dignity of a man who actually knows how to sail.

Felix is sitting in the shade of the mainsail, a ledger open on his knees, though he has not turned a page since the bells rang noon. He looks too neat for a boat. His linen shirt is white enough to blind, the collar buttoned exactly where it should be, his boots polished to a mirror shine despite the salt spray. He looks up as Théo’s voice rises another octave.

"He is going to drop it," Felix says, not looking up from the ledger. He speaks with the certainty of a man who has predicted three hundred consecutive minor disasters and been right about most of them.

"Let him," I say. I do not open my eyes. She shifts, her thigh sliding higher, the hair at the crook of her groin scraping against my hip. She is soft and heavy, entirely too warm for June, but moving her requires effort. "If Théo drops the fender, we buy another. If we buy another, the merchant on the docks eats tonight. We are local philanthropists, Monsieur Hartmann. We must support the economy."

"You are a saint, Nico," Sandro says from under his hat. "A martyr to the cause of luxury."

"I do what I can for the people," I say.

The deck tilts as a swell hits the hull. She stirs, muttering something Spanish or Valderran into the hollow of my shoulder, then settles back down. I run a finger down the groove of her spine, tracing the small bumps of her vertebrae under the skin. She is a pleasant distraction, but she is also a weight. The sun is hot enough to cook fish on the wood, and my shirt is somewhere under the bench, probably soaked in bilge water.

"The manifests are late," Felix says. He taps the edge of his ledger with a silver pencil. "Armand promised the harbor logs by Tuesday. It is Friday."

"Monsieur Vellier is a busy man," I say. "He has a casino to run and a trading company to direct. Plus, three different mistresses are currently trying to murder each other. Let the man breathe."

"He has four mistresses," Sandro corrects, lifting the edge of his hat with one finger. "The Spanish one at the docks does not count as a mistress. She is more of an investment."

"An investment requiring a carriage and three servants," Felix says. "The ledger does not care about the distinction."

Felix does not look up from his ledger, but his pen stops moving. "Your father's letter is still on the cabin table. The seal is melting."

"Then the wax is doing its job," I say, closing my eyes again. "It is protecting the contents from my curiosity. A highly efficient system."

"The messenger from Valderre is still waiting at the consulate," Felix says. "He has been there three days."

"I hope they are feeding him," I say. "The consulate has excellent kitchens. Tell him I am at sea, searching for my lost youth. He will understand. Valderrans are romantic about maritime tragedies."

"He is a clerk, Nico. He is only here for a signature."

"Then he should have gone to law school," Sandro says from under his hat. "Lawyers love signatures. Nico only loves wine and women he cannot name."

She stirs against me, her fingers curling into the hair on my chest. She gives a low, sleepy grunt, her mouth warm against my collarbone.

"See?" I say. "Even the lady agrees. Signatures are a post-sundown problem."

"Everything is a post-sundown problem for you," Felix says. He finally turns a page, the paper dry and loud in the silence of the boat. "Until the sun actually sets."

Théo’s footsteps scuff against the deck as he finally walks back from the bow. His face is red, his blonde hair stuck to his forehead in damp clumps. He wipes his brow with a silk handkerchief worth more than the first mate's monthly wage.

"The man is obstinate," Théo says, throwing himself onto the opposite bench. He reaches into the bucket, pulls out the bottle of wine, and frowns at the condensation. "It is practically boiling. Nico, your crew has no respect for the vintage."

"They have respect for the sea, Monsieur Beaumont," I say, opening one eye. "Which is why we are currently afloat and not sinking in thirty fathoms. Drink the wine or dump it."

He drinks it, straight from the bottle, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "We need to go to Le Cercle tonight. The Valderran ambassador's nephew is in town. He has three bags of gold and no concept of probability."

"An excellent combination," Sandro says. He sits up, the straw hat falling into his lap. He looks at the bay entrance, squinting against the glare. "Look at that."

A shadow crosses the sun. The deck goes grey under the mast.

I sit up. She slides off my chest, her shoulder hitting the deck with a soft thud. She lets out a sharp, indignant squeak, curling her knees to her chest, her dark hair falling over her face as she glares at me.

"My apologies, sweetheart," I say, my eyes fixed on the harbor mouth. I reach down and pat her hip, then stand up.

A ship is clearing the rocky point at the entrance of the bay.

It is a three-masted merchantman, riding low in the water, the black paint on her hull blistered and peeling from too many weeks in southern waters. She is heavy, broad-beamed, built for cargo, thick and slow. A dirty mainsail, patched with grey hemp, hangs from her center mast, though the flag flying from her stern is clean.

The Vellier anchor mark is stamped in black paint on the white canvas of the foresail.

"The Marie-Claire," Felix says, his eyes narrowing as the ship glides past the breakwater. "Three weeks late from the Fallen Coast. Armand said she was delayed in Tunis."

"She has the look of a vessel caught in a gale," Sandro says. He stands up next to me, leaning his hands on the railing. "Or a fight. Fresh timber patches the bulwarks on the port side."

The ship moves slowly, the oars of the tugs pulling her toward the commercial docks. There is no music, no shouting from the crew, only the creak of the timber. As the black hull moves past our stern, a woman in European wool stands at the port railing, away from the hauling crew. She wears the heavy green of a Valderran winter gown, but she stands with a straight, rigid posture foreign to Valderre. For three seconds, she looks across the water, her eyes steady on our deck, before the ship clears the point and the heavy anchor drops into the mud.

My skin is still hot from her body, the sweat drying fast in the salt wind, but the warmth is gone. A hook pulls in the center of my chest, dragging my attention toward the dark hull of the merchantman. No sensible reason for the pull comes to mind, which is annoying. But the image of the woman at the railing remains, a sharp contrast to the soft girl still grumbling on the deck behind me. It is only a ship. Armand has twenty of them in the harbor at any given time, carrying spice and silk for the Valderran court.

But this one rides heavy, a wooden coffin in the water.

"She has cargo," Felix says, flat. "More than she should have if she was only carrying pepper."

"Maybe she found some gold," Théo says. He walks back to the bow to shout another instruction to the crew, then turns and comes back.

Sandro sits up from the bench, brushing wood dust from his trousers.

"Tonight, then," Théo says. He says it the way he says everything, as if the pleasurable outcome is always inevitable.

Nobody disagrees.

I stay silent, my eyes on the harbor, as the first cargo crates swing over the side of the Marie-Claire, waiting for the moment the ship looks back.

Kahina

The linen qamis clings to my collarbones, heavy and damp from the salt spray. The fabric is thin, turning transparent where the water has soaked through. Along the port rail, three deckhands find reasons to coil the same hemp rope, their eyes sliding down the wet drape of the cloth. Let them look. The inspection costs me nothing, and it tells me exactly what these men value. They are predictable and easy to manage.

The wind off the bay is cold, biting through the wet linen. I grip the rail, the paint peeling under my fingers, leaving grey flakes on my palms. Below me, the hull cuts through the dark green water, leaving a trail of foam dissolving against the limestone cliffs. The city of Seravalle rises above the harbor, a fortress of pale limestone.

We have been at sea for twelve days since the raid on our villa. The salt has encrusted my eyelashes, and my skin is tight, coated in a fine white powder running in grey streaks when I sweat. The iron cuffs on my wrists are heavy, cold where they touch my skin, smelling of rust and grease from the ship's chain locker.

My mind goes back to the tiled courtyards of my father's house, where the air was warm and smelled of orange blossoms. My sisters would be sitting by the fountain, their voices overlapping as they argued about the latest silk merchants from the east. We would drink sweet mint tea from small glass cups, laughing at the serious faces of the guards at the gate. Now, my parents and sisters are scattered along the Mediterranean trade routes. I hold the memory of my youngest sister's voice, a hot coal in my hand, painful and impossible to set down. She was ten when they dragged her onto the first corsair vessel. The black sail disappeared toward the west, leaving only the empty horizon.

One of the deckhands, a man with a scarred cheek and the smell of cheap tobacco on his breath, steps closer. He reaches for a wooden pin on the rail next to my hand, his arm brushing against mine. His skin is greasy and cold. I hold my ground, my gaze steady, until he mutters a curse and turns back to his ropes. A princess remains still before a thief.

Under my bare soles, the deck timbers vibrate with the low stir of the hold. I hear the shifting of the others down in the dark. Too many bodies share too little air, and the scent of brine, sweat, sickness, and unwashed skin rises through the cracks in the hatches. I secured a place at the railing. They remain below. The difference is luck, nothing I earned, and I keep my mouth shut about it.

Below the deck, my people are praying. The cadence of our language, spoken in low, trembling voices, rises through the wood. The guards shouted at them to be quiet three hours ago, but the prayer continues, a soft hum the creaking of the hull cannot drown. I listen to them, my jaw clenched, my eyes dry and steady.

Ahead, Seravalle climbs off the cliffs in bleached, sun-struck tiers. My mother taught me to read a court, and this city operates under the same rules. The harbor guns point down from the battlements, their black muzzles trained on the water. Above them, the dense cluster of the upper town climbs toward the sky, crowned by a casino cantilevered over the drop. The sheer height of the stone walls and the jut of the casino over open air are the first thing anyone arriving by water sees. It is a city built on pride and theft.

A private yacht slides past our starboard side. It is a long sweep of polished teak and brass, carrying idle wealth. Naked girls drape themselves along the stern rails, their skin golden under the sun. For three seconds, the space between the vessels shrinks. A dark-haired man stands on the yacht's deck, his hands resting on the rail. His eyes bypass the wet qamis and the iron links on my wrists, settling instead on my face and staying there. I hold his stare, my chin lifted, refusing to offer him the modesty of a downcast look. My fingers tighten on the rail until the paint flakes bite my palm, and I keep my expression flat. The boat carries him past, the distance widening. He looked at my face. Men in this world price me in coin before they price anything else, and he did not.

The boat clears our stern. Our crew lowers the gangplank, the wood groaning as it strikes the stone quay. I step off the vessel carrying me as cargo, my bare feet landing on the dry dust of Seravalle.

On the quay, dockworkers haul crates out of the main hold. The sharp, earthy heat of my coast's cumin fills the air, and under it the sweet, heavy scent of saffron, graded the way my father's stewards graded it in our drying rooms. I spent my childhood summers in the sorting sheds, where the women separated the orange stigmas from the purple petals. The dust would turn our fingers yellow for weeks. The crates bear a black anchor mark. Our kingdom's harvest moves under a foreign brand, claimed by the men who took it.

They looted many things off the Fallen Coast. The spices are laundered into legitimate trade, and I am only the portion of the cargo that can still walk.

The harbor guard stands at the foot of the pier, his leather jerkin stained with grease. He holds an iron-tipped spear, his eyes scanning the prisoners as they shuffle off the gangplank. Behind him, the warehouses are dark caverns smelling of rotting fish and wet hemp. I walk past him, keeping my head high, the iron cuffs on my wrists clinking with every step. The city is a maze of steep stairs and narrow alleys, climbing into the white cliffs.

I arrive with nothing, which is the same as arriving with a clean hand. I have worked with less. My country's saffron has already walked past me under another man's mark, and I intend to find the owner of that brand.

I step into the shadow of the harbor warehouses. The city paying for my passage rises around me, a steep labyrinth of stone. The dark-haired man on the yacht remains a minor detail, a loose thread I will pull once I have the name behind the anchor.