Fable (Fable #1)(23)

I turned, eyeing the tasseled edge of the ruby wool tapestry beside my feet and sank down, lifting up its corner. My heart plummeted into my stomach as the lamplight flickered over the shape of a black wave. I pulled the rug back farther, gasping as the rest of the symbol came into view. The scuffed outline of a crest was painted onto the floor. But it wasn’t the Marigold’s.

It was Saint’s.

My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Trying to put the pieces into an order I could understand. But the only explanation was one that couldn’t be true.

This wasn’t West’s ship. It was my father’s. Or it had been at one time. But the crest on the sails and the prow wasn’t his. So, either West was hiding where this ship came from, or he was hiding what it actually was.

A shadow ship.

I’d heard of them before—ships that were controlled by a powerful trading outfit but operated under a different crest to hide their true identity. They carried out tasks that their master didn’t want to be associated with, or worse, manipulated trade at ports to tip the scales in their favor. It was a grave offense against the Trade Council and one that would get a ship’s license permanently revoked. It didn’t surprise me that Saint had a shadow ship. Maybe he had many. But why would he trust a job like that to a bunch of Waterside strays?

That was how they’d gotten their license from the Trade Council—Saint.

The sharp clang of a bell made me jolt, and the heavy compass slipped from my cold fingers. I leapt forward, catching it before it slammed onto the floor, almost knocking the lantern from the table. I sucked in a breath, steadying myself against the desk.

It was the bell that signaled sundown, ringing out over the village as the last of the light disappeared over the horizon.

I replaced the compass in the very center of the desk with trembling hands before I climbed back through the floorboards and secured them back into place. I couldn’t replace the nails, but so close to the desk and half-tucked beneath the rug, I hoped it would take a while for anyone to notice.

I came back up onto the main deck and looked out over the village. If I remembered where it was, I could make it to the gambit and back in a little more than an hour.

Below, the two men West had paid were on the dock, bent over a game of cards. I lifted myself over the stern of the Marigold, winding my legs into the rope of a fish trap so I could lower myself all the way down without a sound and slip into the still water of the harbor. I filled my lungs with air and sank below the surface, swimming with my hands out before me in the dark, headed for the shore.

I knew that in the Narrows, nothing was what it seemed. Every truth was twisted. Every lie carefully constructed. My instincts had been right about the Marigold. It wasn’t a trading ship, or at least that wasn’t all she was. It was only a matter of time before the crew of Saint’s shadow ship found a rope around their necks. And my only chance at making it to Ceros would be gone.





TWELVE



I wove through the crowded street, headed for the bell tower that stood in the center of Dern. On Jeval, there had been little to frame the expanse of sky before it dove into the sea. Here, it was hedged in by the wayward patterns of crude, slanted rooftops, making me feel like I could disappear.

On Jeval, there had been nowhere to hide.

I kept a careful watch around me, turning to scan my surroundings every eight to ten steps to keep track of my path. I remembered more of the village than I thought I would, because not much had changed in the years since I’d last walked its streets. The shapes and the sounds came back to me in another rush of memories. But the last time I was in Dern, I was holding the hand of my father’s navigator, Clove. I’d followed after him in the dark with quick, splashing footsteps as he pulled me through the crowds to the shop of the gambit. But I wasn’t the sweet little girl who’d once ridden through these streets perched on his shoulders. I’d been whittled into something else now.

The smolder of a pipe illuminated in the dark alley, and a woman watched me through a puff of white mullein smoke. I was already drawing more attention than I wanted to.

I took a sharp turn, noting the red rooftop at the northeast corner to mark where I was. Boots clapping on wet stone sounded behind me, and I pressed myself into the shadow that draped the stone wall with my hand wound tight in my wet braid until they were gone. Most people were headed home with market carts in tow, making their way out of the congested part of the village. But a few were headed up the hill, toward the tavern, and the thought made me nervous. If there weren’t any rooms at the inn, the crew might return to the Marigold.

The gambit’s shop appeared at the end of the next alley, lit by only one dim street lamp. It was no more than a bricked lean-to beside the smooth wall of a windowless building, but it looked exactly the same as I remembered it, down to the framed-out window with one cracked pane. Five uneven steps led up to the green door, where a sign was painted in a chipped, fading blue.

VILLAGE GAMBIT

I stopped, listening for a moment before I stepped one muddy foot into the slice of moonlight that lit the cobblestones. The door swung open, and two women burst forth, laughing as they stumbled down the stairs. I shot back, trying to fit every bit of me into the darkness. They walked right past me without even looking up, and it was only after they were turning the corner that I saw the glitz of something shine around one of their wrists. It glinted like a little flame below the sleeve of her cloak.