Chapter Sixteen
The Settler’s Den
Every coup begins with a whisper—and a lie well told.
The harbor reeked of tar and brine, lanterns burning low against the mist that rolled off the sea.
Storne kept to the shadows, sailor’s coat pulled tight, hair bound back covering his ears, pipe clamped between his teeth though he hadn’t lit it.
Every groan of rope and creak of timber seemed to mark his steps.
Zeporah can waste time with mirrors and whispers.
I cannot.
He pressed a shoulder against a piling, watching ships sway at their moorings—each one a vessel that might yet tip the balance of war.
“You’re not fooling anyone, constable,” a voice rasped.
Storne turned.
A plump old sailor sat on an overturned crate, mending a net with a bone needle, belly spilling over his belt. His eyes gleamed sharp in the lantern light.
Storne allowed a ghost of a smile. “Am I so obvious, friend?”
The sailor snorted. “You’ll find nothing here but the finest outfit in all Rhidian for white-tailed lemons. All under legal weight, of course.”
“Of course,” Storne said easily, pipe stem shifting between his teeth. “But I’ve no jurisdiction here. I hail from Rynesport.”
The sailor paused mid-stitch, eyes narrowing.
“Then why skulk about our slips, constable?”
“I seek a night crew,” Storne said, lowering his voice just enough for the mist to swallow it.
“For lemons?” The sailor’s grin was full of gaps. “Or for tigers?”
“Black-tipped tigers,” Storne answered.
That stilled the old man’s hands.
He eyed Storne hard, then spat into the sea.
“Try a few slips down. You’ll find the sort that don’t ask names.”
Storne inclined his head, pushing off the piling.
As he moved through the mist, he palmed the pipe away, clipped an insignia to his chest, and tugged the collar wide to reveal his pointed ears and clean-shaven face. His stride shifted—steadied, then pitched—until he looked every bit the officer drunk off duty.
“Inattentive sirs!” he barked, stumbling toward a cluster of sailors bent over their crates. “Best keep sharper eyes—or someone will walk off with half your cargo.”
One of them scoffed without looking up. “Shove off, Commandant. Castle’s that way.”
Another muttered under his breath, “Stupid elf.”
The word caught like a splinter, but Storne only smoothed his coat and straightened, then pretended to lose his balance.
“Tell me again which way. The Windtorn Sails bled me dry, and now I’m wandering like a fool.”
“Go back to the tavern,” one said, still annoyed. “Try Belle. She’ll set you straight.”
Storne hauled himself upright, brushing off his coat with sloppy dignity.
“Belle, yes. Looking for Belle.”
He swayed, then lowered his voice, sly.
“You lot don’t fancy a taste of Halyon wine, do you?”
That caught them. Heads turned.
“I seized a whole pallet yesterday,” he said, conspiratorial, lips curving as though sharing sin. “I could bring some by tonight. A gesture of thanks.”
The lead sailor tilted his chin. “Settler’s Den. One hour to midnight.”
Storne wobbled a bow. “Settler’s Den.”
He stumbled away, shoulders hunched.
But once the dock curve broke him from their sight, his spine straightened, pipe vanished into his coat, and the mask dropped clean. Behind a stack of barrels, his own men waited.
“I’ve stationed a crew in Rynesport to receive the munitions,” he told them, voice cutting through the fog.
“You’ll take the ship at midnight—powder, steel, everything she forbade.”
His eyes moved from face to face.
“If Zeporah learns of it, none of you return.”
The fog swallowed them whole, leaving only the echo of command—and the promise that dawn would find a war already set in motion.