Fable (Fable #1)(48)

My mother had loved Saint with a love that could set fire to the sea.

It was a truth that made it hard to wish him dead. But after three glasses of rye, I thought, anything was possible.

I tilted my head back, swallowing the whole of the glass down, and pinched my eyes closed as it burned in my throat. It travelled all the way down to my stomach, making me feel instantly lighter. The warmth of it spilled into the weight of my legs, and I leaned into the counter.

The only soul left in the Narrows that I could run to was Clove, but he was gone, like my mother. The thought hung heavy inside of me, more tears filling my eyes. In all the time I’d spent on Jeval, I’d never felt as alone as I did now.

“Dredger,” a deep voice sounded at my back, and I picked up the second glass, turning on the stool.

Zola stood, leaning into the wooden beam beside the bar, a smile on his face. His cap was gone, revealing a head of long black hair streaked with silver.

“I thought that was you.”

I stared at him wordlessly before throwing my head back and draining the glass.

He set his sharp eyes on the man beside me, who immediately stood, leaving his stool open. Zola took it, setting a copper on the bar.

“What are you doing in a tavern alone at night in the most dangerous city in the Narrows?” He looked as if the idea amused him.

The barkeep set three rye glasses down before him slowly, taking extra care not to spill, and I glared at him.

“None of your business.”

“Where’s your crew?” He leaned in closer.

“They’re not my crew.”

He half laughed. “Probably for the best. Don’t think the Marigold will be on its feet much longer. Neither will its helmsman.”

I turned my last rye glass in a circle on the bar top. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zola shrugged, staring into his glass. “Only that West knows how to get himself into trouble. And eventually, it’s going to catch up with him.” He picked up a glass and shot it back. “I heard something about a dredger in Dern no one had ever seen before, spotting gem fakes. That you?”

“No.”

He set his elbows up on the bar, folding his fingers together. “You’re a good liar. Anyone ever tell you that?”

My eyes slid to meet his. Koy had said the same thing right before he tried to kill me.

“Not a bad trait in the Narrows. You can dredge, you’re good with gems, and you know how to lie. You looking for a place on a crew or not?”

“Not your crew.” I turned to face him.

“Why not?”

“I know what you did to Willa.”

His eyes glinted, the grin on his face spreading even wider. “I don’t think I have to tell you what it takes to survive in the Narrows.”

“I don’t care what your reasons are. I’m not interested.”

He surveyed me as I swallowed my last shot of rye, and when I looked up again, the expression on his face had changed. His eyes narrowed in thought, his head tilting to one side.

“What?”

He blinked, as if for a moment he’d forgotten where he was. “You remind me of someone.” The words were almost too low to hear. He took his last two shots in a row and dropped another copper down, signaling the barkeep.

The sounds of the room quieted as my heart slowed with the race of rye in my veins. Everything was stretched. The light was softer.

Zola’s voice deepened as he stood. “You be careful out there, dredger.”

Three more rye glasses landed on the counter, and I looked over my shoulder. Zola was gone, his stool empty beside me. The day I’d first met him in Dern, he said that Crane was his stryker, but Zola’s ship, the Luna, was much bigger than the Marigold. He ran a much larger crew. Did he know the man I’d watched West and the others kill, or was it just a face he’d barely recognize, sent out on a dirty errand? And what else had that man done on Zola’s order?

I finished the next glass and rubbed my face with the heels of my hands. That night on the Lark, the years on Jeval, the days on the Marigold. They came marching toward me in the candlelight of the tavern like a screaming mob. I wanted to close my eyes and not open them again until winter was bearing down on the Narrows.

I set the second glass down and pulled up the sleeve of my jacket, laying my arm out before me. The scar Saint had carved into my arm looked like the angry web of river inlets. Smooth, raised paths snaked down to my wrist, and I traced them with my finger, stopping on the farthest tip, near my wrist.

Where the Lark lay in the deep.

“Fable?”

I yanked my sleeve back down and cradled my arm to me, looking up to see Willa. The vision of her tipped and swayed, and I suddenly felt like I was falling off the stool. I clamped my hands down on the edge of the counter to hold myself in place.

“What are you doing here?” She sat beside me, leaning forward to look at my face.

I picked up the last glass and drained it, slamming it down.

“How many of those have you had?”

I closed my eyes, breathing through the nausea creeping up my throat. “What do you care?”

“All right,” she said, standing. “Come on.”

She took my hand, but I pulled free, almost falling. Her arms caught me, sitting me back up, and then I was standing. Moving. Weaving through the crowded room as it spun around us. When I stumbled, slamming into the wall, Willa ducked down, throwing me over her shoulder.