Laurent
There have been sea caves along the rocky coast of Castellane for as long as anyone can recall. Historians generally agree that they have been there since the naval battles of the Sundering, and that part of the reason for their enormous size was the subsequent mining of Sunderglass from the rock, which left the coast wall pocked with holes like Detmarch cheese.
Every few years, an enterprising crusader among the Castellane merchants decides that it is time to clear the caves of smugglers and their loot once and for all. These attempts are never very successful: The piracy and privateers have been there as long as the caves themselves, and any official in Castellane who might otherwise be interested in clearing the caves has long since been bribed to look the other way. The legal business of trade is far too entangled with its illegal cousin, smuggling, to ever be extricated from it. Then of course there are the superstitions that hang about the caves like sea mist: that their depths are haunted by the souls of dead sorcerers, who would sicken and kill any who disturb them. It is a convenient tale for the smugglers, who want to be left alone and cheerfully repeat the tales of vengeful ghosts to anyone in the Maze who will listen.
The cave in which Aden has chosen to berth his ship, the Black Rose, is one of the largest of its kind. Vast and hollow as the inside of a drum, it is dimly lit by veins of glowing Sunderglass weaving their way through the rock. The towering masts of the galleon are lost in the shadows overhead; the ship bobs quietly in the dark water. If one were of a suspicious mind, one could imagine the ghosts of dead Sorcerer-Kings among the stalactites above. But Aden is not of a suspicious mind, and he knows perfectly well that the flitting shadows are bats.
Generations ago, a long wooden dock had been built along the curving side wall of the cave to facilitate the loading and unloading of illegal cargo and the comings and goings of crewmen. Aden, unwilling to go far from his ship, has spread a Marakandi rug on a portion of the dock, onto which he’s placed two chairs and a small table. The table holds a bottle of wine, already open, and two fluted glasses.
He’s only just settling himself in one of the chairs when he hears the splashing sounds of the small boat entering the cave and tying up nearby. Boots ring on the dock as the newcomer to the cave paces toward him; when the long shadow of his visitor falls across him, Aden looks up, feigning surprise as he takes in the familiar figure: the polished leather boots, the brass-buttoned admiral’s coat (no doubt thieved from some actual admiral), the piercing, steady eyes.
“Prosper Beck,” Aden says. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
Beck makes a small sound of annoyance. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I heard you had left Castellane.”
“I see.” Beck leans his folded arms on the back of the second chair. “Rumors of my departure have been greatly exaggerated.”
“Have they? You’ve been absent from your normal headquarters, and your usual operatives—Bron, Kaspar, Jerrod Belmerci—all seem to be employed elsewhere now.”
Beck shrugs. “They’ll return when summoned. They all knew my leave of absence wasn’t permanent.”
It is clear more information is not forthcoming. “In that case, you’ll be glad to know I’ve held on to your goods for you. Thirty-six crossbows, hidden under an order of teakwood for House Raspail.” He lifts the bottle. “Shall we drink to a deal concluded?”
The corner of Beck’s mouth quirks up. “Alas, I cannot remain long. Duty calls.”
Aden shrugs and takes a swig from the wine bottle. He makes a face. Bitter. “Very well. But there’s something you should know.”
Beck has begun to turn away but stops and swings around to look keenly at Aden. “What is that?”
It is nice to hear Castellani again, Aden thinks. The language of his birth. Sometimes he goes months now without hearing it. “I know,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “that you have much invested in the fortunes of Castellane. I thought it might interest you to know that in the time we’ve been docked here, my men and I have seen foreign soldiers coming in and out of the caves. Now, pirates I’d expect—all manner of ruffians really—but not soldiers.” He takes another swig of the wine. “I thought you ought to know.”
Beck’s light eyes narrow. “Foreign soldiers? Not Castellani?”
“No. Malgasi would be my guess.”
A look of surprise passes across Beck’s normally impassive face. “Soldiers of Malgasi. You’re sure?”
“No, I’m not sure. But that’s who I think they are.”
“Interesting. Very interesting,” Beck murmurs in a voice so low, Aden guesses he isn’t meant to hear the words. “But—enough about that. I’ll be sending my men to collect the goods from you later tonight. If I might inquire, how long do you plan to remain in Castellane? Or is your business here concluded?”
Aden smiles down into his wine bottle. “It’s not concluded. No, I may be here some while.”
For the first time, Beck grins. “I don’t suppose your desire to remain has anything to do with a certain Princess from Kutani, does it?”
Aden knows better than to show when he is caught off guard. He busies himself in studying the label on the wine bottle, though he could not have said what information it held. After a moment, he says lazily, “I’m here on my own business. Nothing to trouble you.”
“Hm.” Without another word, Beck turns and walks away along the narrow dock. Aden mutters and reaches for the wine bottle, only to sit back when Beck whirls around to look at him again. “Artal Gremont.” The cave walls amplify Beck’s words, making them resound as if they stand inside a temple. “You brought him to Castellane. On your ship.”
Aden groans silently. “For better or worse, yes. He slithered off into the city the moment we arrived here.”
“And what did you think of him?”
Beck’s tone is studiedly neutral. Aden hesitates only a moment before he says coldly, “I took Gremont on board because he was willing to pay handsomely for a passage to Castellane. And I regretted it immediately. The man is a pig with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. In fact, he gives pigs a bad name. If you were thinking of doing business with him, I’d advise against it.” He taps his fingers against the side of his chair, remembering the stowaway on board the Black Rose, what Gremont had done to her. How—if had not arrived in time—Gremont might even have killed her. “He likes to hurt people. People weaker than him. He’s... not a careful man.”
Beck stands still for a long moment, haloed in the light from the Sunderglass above. “Thank you,” Beck says eventually, with a nod. “For the advice.”
Aden sits lost in thought as Beck strides toward the nearby boat and clambers in. He can hear the sound of low voices in conference, muffled by the lap of water. He raises the bottle again and takes a second swig of the liquid. It is still bitter.