Chapter 10: What the Ally Knows

Kahina

The smell of melted wax and cedar smoke hangs heavy over the green felt of the card table. Nico’s stack of gold solari sits at the center, gleaming under the brass chandelier. He nods, keeping his eyes on his cards as my hand rests on the leather backing of his chair.

I bend down, my lips close to the curve of his ear. The emerald at my throat swings forward, tapping against the stiff violet silk of my bodice.

"I need a moment," I say, keeping the words low beneath the chatter of the room.

Nico nods again, his gaze remaining fixed on the cards in his palm. He slides three gold coins into the pile with his thumb.

I stand straight and turn toward the secondary exit. The violet taffeta of my skirts rustles with each step, a sharp, metallic sound against the polished floorboards. I walk at an unhurried pace. It is the exact speed my mother taught me, the carriage of a woman who expects eyes on her back and keeps everyone at a distance. A merchant in a velvet doublet pauses with his goblet halfway to his mouth. I look past him, keeping my focus on the carved oak screen shielding the service corridor.

The corridor behind the screen is dim. The heavy velvet drapes hold back the light of the main salon. Only a single tallow candle burns in an iron bracket on the wall, casting long, oily shadows across the floor. This is the path the folded paper directed me to take.

Vinegar and wet limestone rise from the walls. I slip past the narrow doors of the pantry, my slippers silent on the flagstones. Roasted mutton and spilled wine grow stronger as I near the kitchens, then fade into the cold draft of the secondary stairs. At the end, where the passage bends toward the kitchens, sits a shallow alcove. The waiters avoid this corner, leaving it in darkness to store empty wine crates.

A woman stands in the shadows of the alcove. She wears a worn green house robe of heavy wool, its cuffs frayed at the wrists, and her dark hair is scraped back hard off her face, secured with a plain horn comb. Her cheeks are bare of paint, showing the pale, lined skin of someone who has spent too many years inside these windowless rooms.

She steps forward, her hand reaching out from the wide sleeve of her robe. Her fingers close around mine. Her grip is cold iron, the skin of her palm calloused and dry against my fingers.

"The Red Hawk," she says. Her voice is low and flat. "Captain Malik runs the western route, three days out from the southern coast. His holds are filled with chains and captive weight. He trades in human flesh and iron."

The name Malik is a brand. He is the corsair whose raids broke the Fallen Coast. He remains at sea, a strategic quarry hard to reach, backed by the gold of the merchants who sit in the salon behind me.

The woman’s grip tightens, her nails pressing into the skin of my wrist. "Armand has a ship at the harbor," she says, her eyes fixed on mine. "He owns the broken-masted merchantman under Captain Moret. The vessel sails west at dawn, running cargo along Malik’s route. Reach Moret, and you reach the Hawk."

Moret carries Malik's cargo. Moret sails Malik's route. If I reach Moret before his sails catch the morning wind, I have the first rung of the ladder leading to Malik, and to the ships carrying my sisters west.

The woman lets go of my hand, her fingers sliding off my skin.

"Go," she says.

She turns and slips back into the deeper shadow of the service stairs, the hem of her green robe brushing the floor before she disappears.

I stand alone in the dim corridor. The air is cold and smells of wet lime.

My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. The stone wall is rough against my palm as I lean my weight against it. My fingers shake. I press both hands flat against the cold limestone, letting the damp chill bite into my skin. The name Malik sits in my chest like a swallowed stone, heavy and sharp behind my ribs. It is the name of the man who took my sisters, who turned my home into cargo. The memory of the day the ships came rises in my throat, the smell of burning cedar and the sound of my sisters screaming over the noise of the surf.

For three years, I have searched for a name. Now I have one, and the knowledge is raw.

I close my eyes and force three slow breaths into my lungs. The air is cold, tasting of dust and old grease. With each breath, the trembling in my fingers quietens. I pull my hands back from the wall, leaving two faint prints of moisture on the limestone.

My hands smooth the front of my violet bodice, pulling the heavy silk straight. My fingers find a loose strand of black hair near my temple and tuck it back behind my ear, securing it under the gold pin. I lift my chin and settle my features into the smooth, unreadable mask I wore at court.

I came to Le Sanctuaire to be looked at. My purpose was to take what I could from the men who bought me. Now I have him. A name with a face and a route. That should be power, and underneath the power my hands want to shake again before they will do their work. Malik turns coasts into cargo. My sisters went west on a hull like his, packed into the dark of a hold while he counted his solari.

The last of it I push down hard, down where I push everything I cannot use. My face remains clear.

The road to Moret and Malik runs through the card room. Nico holds the key. I have his mother’s gold around my neck, but I need his yacht and his name to reach the harbor before Captain Moret sails. I must make him sail the Sans Souci west. I must make him choose to follow the path he has spent years avoiding.

I step out of the shadow of the corridor and walk back into the bright, yellow light of the salon. The hum of voices and the clinking of glasses hit me, a physical blow against my ears, but my stride is smooth.

Nico is still sitting at the card table, his dark hair catching the light. His coat is made of fine wool, the cuffs clean. He sits with a relaxed posture, leaning back against the leather. He is the man who bought my week, the man who plays at cards while the world runs on blood. I must use him to reach Moret.

I walk toward him, the violet silk rustling, the name Malik burning in my chest.

I slide my hand onto the polished wood beside his stack of solari. Nico tilts his head, his fingers pausing on his cards. He slides a solari across the green felt until it touches my fingernail.

Nico

The air in Le Sanctuaire is thick with the scent of tallow and expensive tobacco, a heavy, warm fog that hangs beneath the rafters. I stack my gold solari, the coins making a solid, metallic click as I drop them onto the green wool. Three sixes lie in front of my hands. It is a lucky hand, requiring no thought to play, which is convenient because my thoughts are elsewhere. Kahina’s chair is empty beside me. The violet silk of her skirts had rustled when she stood, a sharp, dry rasp that stayed in the air long after she disappeared behind the carved oak screen of the service corridor.

To my left, Sandro tosses a silver piece into the pot, the metal sliding across the table. His cuffs are rolled back, his dark forearms resting against the polished edge of the table. A lazy posture comes naturally to him, his rest undisturbed by the late hours. Next to him, Théo Beaumont is losing his temper and his stakes with equal grace. Unbuttoned to the third button of his shirt, Théo displays a chest flushed from the heavy Seravallian brandy. His eyes are fixed on his cards as if he can force the numbers to change by sheer indignation.

"If you stare at those any longer, Théo," I say, sliding a column of gold into the pile, "the dealer will charge you for the wear on the ink."

"The ink is fine," Théo says, his voice rising over the low murmur of the room. "It is the luck that has gone sour. Sandro has been hoarding the cards under his cuffs. I can smell the ink on his fingers."

Sandro laughs, his eyes fixed on the pot. "Hope is for men who do not own boats, Théo. I have a cargo of oil arriving at the harbor at dawn. I cannot afford to be romantic about a pair of fours."

"You are both cynics," Théo says, draining his glass. The crystal hits the mahogany with a sharp click. "Nico is winning because he is too lazy to lose. Look at him. He has not checked his cards in three rounds."

"I do not need to," I say. "The dealer is a man of integrity. He knows my father has many frigates, and he has no desire to see them anchored in the harbor mouth."

It is an old joke, the sort we throw across the table to keep the silence from setting. In Le Sanctuaire, silence is the only thing that costs more than the wine. The gentlemen of Seravalle come here to escape their wives and the tedious business of their ledger books. We play the courtesy game, inflating each other's titles for the sport of it. Gold we do not need sits in the pot, won with cards we will forget by morning, while downstairs Madame Eclaire’s girls ensure nobody leaves with a full pocket or an empty bed.

A woman sits in the empty chair beside me. She wears a silver bodice, laced loosely enough to show the swell of her breasts, the skin there pale and damp in the candlelight. Her bare arm rests on the edge of the table. Rosewater underneath the heavy grease of the kitchens downstairs rises from her skin. Leaning closer, she presses her hip against mine through the wool of my trousers. Bitten down to the pink, her fingernails trail slowly down my sleeve.

For six years, I would have followed the routine without a thought. My hand would find the bare curve of her shoulder, a low joke would pass between us, and the house fee would be settled by midnight to have her waiting in the master cabin of the Sans Souci. She has a good weight to her, with round hips to press solid against a mattress, and her mouth is painted with a deep plum dye, ready to smear across my chest. The invitation is clear, a simple friction I have welcomed a hundred times. It is the easy choice, the one requiring no names and leaving no marks. This is the man I have been since I first sailed into Seravalle.

But tonight, the routine tastes like dust. The silver lace of her bodice looks cheap under the chandelier, and the smell of rosewater only makes me think of the clean salt wind on the water. I want something else.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a heavy gold solari and flip it. The coin catches the candlelight as it spins, landing with a soft thud in the silver lace of her lap.

"Go save Monsieur Beaumont," I say, nodding toward Théo. "He is about to wager his boots, and he has a long walk back to the harbor."

The woman is a professional. She pockets the coin and turns away, seeking a more profitable table.

Théo’s eyes brighten as she leans over his chair, the silver bodice flaring near his nose. "Ah, Nico. Your charity is as grand as your yacht."

"Save your gratitude for the dealer, Théo," I say. "He is the one taking your boots."

The dark archway of the corridor stays empty. I turn my crystal glass on the green cloth, the rim drawing slow circles, and keep my eyes on the gap in the oak screen. My throat is dry. The brandy sits heavy on my tongue, sweet and hot, but it does not clear the taste of the room. I want to stand and drag her out of whatever shadow she has found, but this is Armand’s house. A man makes a scene in Le Sanctuaire only when he is prepared to finish it with steel, and I am unready to draw against Armand. My own ship sits in an Italian yard, a secret I do not share. If I cross that threshold, the game ends.

Twenty minutes pass before she appears in the archway. She walks too fast, her violet skirts bunched in her hand at her shins, the silk rustling with a hurried beat. One hand presses flat against her thigh, the skin tight over her joints. Her face is a mask of courtly calm, but the cracks show when she stops beside my chair. The skin under her eyes is thin and grey.

She slides her hand onto the polished wood beside my stack of solari. I tilt my head, my fingers pausing on my cards. A single gold piece slides across the felt from my hand until the metal touches her fingernail.

The gold solari rests against her finger. Her skin is pale against the felt, the emerald at her neck catching the yellow light of the chandelier as it swings. The questions press against my teeth. Who met her in the dark of the corridor? What did this house do to her in the twenty minutes she was gone?

I look at her hand. Her knuckles are white where her fingers press into the wood, the skin drawn tight over the bone. The easy words die in my throat. I could ask, demanding to know who spoke to her in the shadows, or what secrets she is carrying back from the pantry stairs. I paid for her week, after all. The contract is locked in my teak box on the Sans Souci, and by the laws of Seravalle, her time belongs to my ledger. But to ask is to demand an accounting of my purchase. Her fear is her own to keep, no matter what the papers in my cabin say.

I reach out and cover her hand with mine. Her fingers are ice, the chill biting through my palm. Turning her hand over, I fit her palm against mine and lay my thumb against the inside of her wrist. The pulse there races, a rapid, frantic thrumming against my skin. She keeps her hand in mine. Her fingers tighten slightly, a brief pressure against my knuckles, and she lets her hand rest in my palm.

I sweep the solari into my pocket and toss a single gold coin to the dealer. Sliding my cards face down, I stand and draw her up with me.

Sandro raises his eyebrows, his gaze moving from my face to the cards. "With three sixes? Nico, you are insulting the dealer's generosity."

Théo is too busy adjusting his collar for the woman in the silver bodice to care, but he waves a hand. "More room for my comeback. Go, sleep it off on your boat."

I remain silent, keeping my grip on Kahina’s cold fingers. The violet skirts fall back to her ankles, the silk rustling as she stands. Her shoulder brushes mine, the warmth of her arm striking through the wool of my sleeve.

Kahina

The carriage door shuts with a heavy wooden thud, sealing us inside the small, dark cabin. Outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the cobblestones of the upper town slick and black under the oil lamps. The scent of Le Sanctuaire follows us, tallow and burnt tobacco clinging to the wool of Nico’s coat. I pull the heavy violet silk of my skirts closer to my ankles, avoiding the damp floorboards. The carriage jolts forward, and the iron wheels grind against the stones, rolling us down toward the sea. The driver calls out to the horses, his voice muffled by the wooden roof. The beasts strain against the leather harnesses, their hooves striking the wet stone in a clattering beat. The villas of the upper town stand dark, their windows shuttered, the old families locked behind iron grates. Below, lantern light still moves along the harbor.

The folded scrap of paper from the girl in the silver silk sits tucked inside the lace of my corset, a sharp corner scraping my ribs with every turn of the road. On it, the name of Captain Moret is written in a hurried hand, the ink still smelling of vinegar. That paper is my path out of Seravalle, the first link in a chain that leads back to my sisters. If Moret’s ship sails without me, the trail goes cold again, and I remain Nico's guest, playing the courtier on his yacht while my family is sold piece by piece. I keep my back straight, my chin high, using the posture my mother drilled into my sisters and me before the walls of our villa fell. A princess maintains her posture, even when she is a passenger on another man's vessel. Beside me, Nico sits in the shadow, his large frame occupying the opposite corner of the seat. He rests his head against the leather, his face visible only when we pass a streetlamp.

A draft leaks through the seam of the carriage window, carrying salt and rotting seaweed from the docks below. The cold of it is nothing like the warm breeze of the Fallen Coast, which used to bring dried jasmine and woodsmoke. Here, the Mediterranean is a barrier of limestone cliffs and iron laws. In Seravalle, everything has a price, and even the air smells of transactions. I adjust my shawl, the wool rough against my collarbone. The emerald necklace Nico gave me sits heavy against my skin, a cold weight that belongs to his mother. It is another borrowed thing, like the violet silk dress and the name I let him use. I am wrapped in his wealth, yet my own empty pockets remain a constant reminder.

An amber bar of light sweeps across the carriage ceiling, illuminating his profile. His jaw is a hard line. His eyes stay fixed on the dark space between us. Neither of us speaks. The air in the small space fills with our breaths and the damp smell of the leather cushions. The carriage bounces over a deep gutter, and my shoulder knocks against his arm. He remains in place. The heat of his arm penetrates the thin silk of my sleeve, a sharp contrast to the cold air rising from the floor. His breathing is steady, a low sound that matches the creak of the leather springs. He has the build of a sailor, his shoulders wide enough to block out the view of the carriage door if he chooses to move.

"You touched his sleeve," Nico says. The words are quiet, but they hold the weight of an accusation. He turns his head, his dark eyes catching the yellow glare of a streetlamp as it passes. "You smiled at him. I was thirty feet away, watching you play him like a lute. Where did you learn to look at a monster with that much warmth?"

I keep my gaze on the window as the stone facades of the upper town slide by. The glass is cold when the carriage jolts, sending a brief vibration against my cheek. I think of Armand’s hand on my shoulder, the dry, papery touch of a man who buys and sells human lives with the same indifference he shows to crates of saffron. My skin still crawls where his fingers rested, but Nico sees only the smile I wear. He sees the performance. The blade in my skirts stays hidden from him.

"In the courts of my father, Nico," I say, my voice steady. "You smile at the executioner until you find the strength to lift the axe."

He is silent for a moment. The carriage wheels clatter against a wooden bridge, the sound echoing in the hollow space below. I remember my father’s minister, a man who had smiled at the conquerors while his sons smuggled our family gold out of the city gates. He had taught me that survival requires absolute patience. Pride is a luxury for those who are already safe. If I must smile at Nico, or even at Armand, to reach the harbor, I will do so instantly. Nico’s hand moves, his fingers tracing the leather seat between us. The silver ring on his finger catches the light, a bright spark in the gloom.

The leather seat groans as Nico shifts his weight. He leans closer, his shoulder pressing firmer against mine. The smell of cardamom and warm skin rises from him, pushing back the scent of the carriage.

"You shouldn't have to," he says, his voice dropping. "You're on my boat. I paid for your time."

The reminder bites. He paid Eclaire, believing that transaction gives him the right to shield me from Armand or the truth of what Seravalle is. His desire is to keep me in the clean, sunlit world of the Sans Souci, where the only rules are his rules. I turn from the glass to face him. The space between us is small, and the heat of his breath brushes my neck. A dry smile pulls at the corners of my mouth, the old armor of a princess who knows how to handle men who think their gold bought more than my presence.

"Is that a complaint, Duke's son?" I ask. "Or are you jealous I gave Armand a touch for free, when it cost you Felix's manifests to get one from me?"

He leans in until we share breath, his face inches from mine. His gaze drops to my mouth, then rises to my eyes. The casual playboy of the casino has vanished, replaced by a man who looks at me as if I am the only harbor he wants to reach. His chest rises and falls in slow, heavy breaths, his proximity casting a shadow over my face.

"Highly offended by the double standard," he says, his voice low and direct. "And yes, jealous. I want the next touch, and I'll pay more than manifests for it."

The scrap of paper inside my corset scrapes against my skin, a physical reminder of the ship sailing when the sun rises. Nico knows nothing of Captain Moret. He cannot see that my sister’s freedom rests on the name of a captain, or that Moret’s sails will catch the morning wind. In his mind, he purchased only a week of my company, a secret-guarded presence behind a wall of silk. I need his name. The dockside watch will turn away a displaced woman from the Fallen Coast, but they will bow to the son of a Duke. To reach the Isabella, I must use his gold and his authority. The want that has been building since the swim in the cove must wait, folded away beside my plans.

I pull back slightly to clear his chin, though the warmth of his skin remains.

"The price has gone up," I say, keeping my eyes locked on his. "Tomorrow I have to reach the harbor by dawn. Get me past the harbor master's guards, and we will talk payment."

He says nothing. He asks for no explanation of what business a displaced princess has at the docks before the fishing boats cast off. He simply moves.

Nico answers with his mouth. His hand cups my jaw, his fingers broad and heavy against my neck as he pulls me forward. His lips press against mine, hot and hungry in the jolting dark. His teeth catch my lower lip, drawing a sharp gasp from my throat. My fingers fist the wool of his lapels, pulling him closer until my breasts crush against the stiffness of his coat. The carriage bounces over a deep rut, throwing us together, but his grip on my jaw holds. The taste of cardamom and salt fills my mouth. He deepens the pressure, his tongue sliding against mine, insistent. A shudder runs down my spine. I press back into the leather cushions under the weight of him. The harbor and the manifests are gone, replaced by the rough wool of his coat under my fingers and the heat of his mouth against mine.

He pulls back, his breathing rough against my forehead. His thumb presses against my lower lip, tracing the small, swollen spot where his teeth left their mark.

"A down payment, princess," he says. "To secure the contract."

I touch my wet mouth, the skin hot and tender under my fingertips. A slow smile rises to my lips, dry and deliberate.

"Accepted, Duke's son," I say. "The rest of the currency is tomorrow."

He lets his hand drop, his shoulders settling back against the leather.

"Dawn is three hours away," he says. "Sleep fast."

I keep silent, remaining beside him with my shoulder pressed against his coat, listening to the iron-shod hooves strike the wet stones as the carriage rolls down the long cliffs toward the water.