Retvenko nodded once to the guard stashed in the little booth at the entrance to Fourth Harbor and glanced over his shoulder, confirming he hadn’t been followed. He made his way past the cargo containers to the docks, found the appropriate berth, and stood in line to register with the first mate. Retvenko recognized him from past voyages, always harried and ill-humored, scrawny neck poking from the collar of his coat. He held a thick sheaf of documents, and Retvenko glimpsed the purple wax seal of one of the members of the Kerch Merchant Council. Those seals were better than gold in this city, guaranteeing the best berths in the harbor and preferred access to the docks. And why did the councilmen garner such respect, such advantage? Because of coin. Because their missions brought profit to Ketterdam. Power meant something more in Ravka, where the elements bent to the will of the Grisha and the country was ruled by a proper king instead of a cadre of upstart merchants. Admittedly, Retvenko had tried to depose that king’s father, but the point remained.
“We’re not ready for the rest of the crew just yet,” the first mate said as Retvenko gave his name. “You can keep warm in the harbormaster’s office. We’re waiting on our signal from the Council of Tides.”
“Good for you,” Retvenko said, unimpressed. He glanced up at one of the black obelisk towers that loomed over the harbor. If there were any chance that the high and mighty Council of Tides could see him from their watchtower, he would have let them know exactly what he thought with a few choice gestures. They were supposedly Grisha, but had they ever lifted a finger to help the other Grisha in the city? To help those down on their luck who might have welcomed a bit of kindness? “No, they have not,” he answered himself.
The first mate winced. “Ghezen , Retvenko. Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“You stink of whiskey.”
Retvenko sniffed. “Little bit whiskey.”
“Just dry out. Get yourself some coffee or strong jurda . This cotton has to be in Djerholm in two weeks’ time, and we aren’t paying you to nurse a hangover belowdecks. Understood?”
“Yes, yes,” Retvenko said with a dismissive wave, already heading toward the harbormaster’s office. But when he was a few steps away, he flicked his wrist. A tiny whirlwind caught the papers the first mate was holding, sending them flying over the docks.
“Damn it!” he shouted as he went scrambling over the wooden planks, trying to capture the pages of his manifest before they blew into the sea.
Retvenko smiled with grim pleasure, then felt a wave of sadness overtake him. He was a giant among men, a gifted Squaller, a great soldier, but here he was just an employee , a sad old Ravkan who spoke broken Kerch and drank too much. Home , he told himself. Soon I’ll be home. He would get his pardon and prove himself once more. He would fight for his country. He would sleep under a roof that didn’t leak and wear a blue wool kefta lined with silver fox fur. He would be Emil Retvenko again, not this pathetic shadow.
“There’s coffee,” said the clerk when Retvenko entered the harbormaster’s office, gesturing toward a copper urn in the corner.
“Tea?”
“There’s coffee.”
This country. Retvenko filled a mug full of the dark sludge, more to warm his hands than anything. He couldn’t bear the taste of it, certainly not without a healthy dose of sugar, which the harbormaster had neglected to supply.
“Wind blowing in,” said the clerk as a bell clanged outside, shaken by the rising breeze.
“I have ears,” Retvenko grumbled.
“Don’t think it will amount to much here, but once you get out of the harbor—”
“Be silent,” Retvenko said sharply. He was on his feet, listening.
“What?” said the clerk. “There’s—”
Retvenko put a finger to his lips. “Someone cries out.” The sound had come from where the ship was docked.
“It’s just gulls. Sun’s coming up soon and—”
Retvenko raised a hand, and a gust of air slammed the clerk back into the wall. “I said be silent .”
The clerk’s mouth dropped open as he hung pinned to the slats. “You’re the Grisha they got for the crew?”
For Saints’ sake, was Retvenko going to have to pull the air from this boy’s lungs and suffocate him into quiet?
Through the waxy windows, Retvenko could see the sky beginning to turn blue as dawn arrived. He heard the squawking of gulls searching the waves for breakfast. Maybe the liquor was muddling his mind.
Retvenko let the clerk drop to the ground. He’d spilled his coffee, but he didn’t want to bother with another cup.
“Told you it was nothing,” said the clerk as he dragged himself to his feet. “Didn’t have to get all heated up.” The clerk dusted himself off and got resettled behind the desk. “I never met one of you before. Grisha.” Retvenko snorted. The clerk probably had and simply didn’t know it. “You get paid pretty good for the voyages?”
“Not good enough.”
“I—” But whatever the clerk was going to say next was lost as the door to the office exploded in a hail of splinters.
Retvenko’s hands went up to shield his face. He ducked and rolled behind the clerk’s desk for cover. A woman entered the office—black hair, golden eyes. Shu.
The clerk reached for a shotgun Retvenko saw strapped beneath the desk. “They’ve come for the payroll!” he shouted. “Ain’t no one taking the payroll.”
Retvenko watched in shock as the gangly clerk stood like some kind of avenging warrior and opened fire. By all that was holy, nothing could motivate the Kerch like cash.
Retvenko peeked around the desk in time to see the shotgun blast strike the woman directly in the chest. She was thrown backward and collided with the doorjamb, crumpling to the floor. He smelled the sharp burn of gunpowder, the metallic tang of blood. Retvenko’s belly gave a shaming lurch. It had been a long time since he’d seen someone shot down in front of him—and that had been in a time of war.
“Ain’t no one taking the payroll,” the clerk repeated with satisfaction.
But before Retvenko could reply, the Shu woman wrapped her bloody hand around the door frame, hauling herself to her feet.
Retvenko blinked. Just how much whiskey had he had?
The woman marched forward. Through the remains of her tattered blouse, Retvenko saw blood, flesh pocked with buckshot, and the glint of what looked like metal.
The clerk fumbled to reload, but the woman was too fast. She grabbed the gun from his hands and swatted him down with it, knocking him sideways with terrible force. She tossed the gun aside and turned her golden eyes on Retvenko.
“Take payroll!” Retvenko shouted, clambering backward. He dug in his pockets and tossed his nearly empty wallet at her. “Take what you want.”
The woman smiled slightly at that—with pity? Amusement? Retvenko did not know. But he understood that she had not come for the money at all. She had come for him. And it didn’t matter if she was a slaver or a mercenary or something else entirely. She would face a soldier, not some cowering weakling.
He leapt to his feet, muscles responding reluctantly to his demands, and shifted into fighting stance. His arms arced forward. A howling wind swept through the room, tossing a chair, then the clerk’s desk, then the steaming coffee urn at the woman. She batted each item away with little interest, as if she were brushing aside stray cobwebs.
Retvenko focused his power and shoved both his hands forward, feeling his ears pop as the pressure dropped and the wind swelled in a surging thunderhead. Maybe this woman couldn’t be stopped by bullets. Let’s see how she fared against the fury of a storm.
The woman growled as the gale seized her, hurtling her back through the open doorway. She seized the jamb, trying to keep hold.
Retvenko laughed. He’d forgotten how good it felt to fight. Then, from behind him, he heard a loud crack , the shriek of nails torn free and rending timber. He looked over his shoulder and caught the briefest glimpse of the dawn sky, the wharf. The wall was gone.
Strong arms seized him, clasping his hands to his sides, preventing him from using his power. He was rising, sailing upward, the harbor shrinking beneath him. He saw the roof of the harbormaster’s office, the body of the first mate in a heap on the dock, the ship Retvenko had been meant to sail on—its deck a mess of broken boards, bodies piled near the shattered masts. His attackers had been there first.
The air was cold on his face. His heart pounded a ragged rhythm in his ears.