The Inroads stood at the end of the docks, its lanterns haloed by the tendrils of the sea fog that crept into the port. A sign above the door was written in three languages, only one of which Lila recognized.
The familiar sounds reached her from within, the ambient noise of scraping chairs and clinking glass, of laughter and threats and fights about to break out. They were the same sounds she’d heard a hundred times at the Stone’s Throw, and it struck her as odd that those sounds could exist here, in a black market town at the edge of an empire in a magical world. There was, she supposed, a comfort to these places, to the fabric that made them, the way that two taverns, cities apart—worlds apart—could feel the same, look the same, sound the same.
Alucard was holding the door open for her. “Tas enol,” he said, sliding back into Arnesian. After you.
Lila nodded and went in.
Inside, the Inroads looked familiar enough; it was the people who were different. Unlike the black market, here the hoods and hats had all been cast off, and Lila got her first good look at the crews from the other ships along the dock. A towering Veskan pushed past them, nearly filling the doorway as he went, a massive blond braid falling down his back. He was bare-armed as he stepped out into the winter cold.
A huddle of men stood just inside the door, talking in low voices with smooth foreign tongues. One glanced at her, and she was startled to see that his eyes were gold. Not amber, like the prince’s, but bright, almost reflective, their metallic centers flecked with black. Those eyes shone out from skin as dark as the ocean at night, and unlike the Faroan she’d seen in the market, this man’s face was studded with dozens of pieces of pale green glass. The fragments traced lines over his brows, followed the curve of his cheek, trailed down his throat. The effect was haunting.
“Close your mouth,” Alucard hissed in her ear. “You look like a fish.”
The light in the tavern was low, shining up from tables and hearths instead of down from the ceiling and walls, casting faces in odd shadow as the candles glanced off cheeks and brows.
It wasn’t terribly crowded—she’d only seen four ships in the port—and she could make out the Spire’s men, scattered about and chatting in groups of two or three.
Stross and Lenos had snagged a table by the bar and were playing cards with a handful of Veskans; Olo watched, and broad-shouldered Tav was deep in conversation with an Arnesian from another ship.
Handsome Vasry was flirting with a Faroan-looking barmaid—nothing unusual there—and a wiry crewman named Kobis sat at the end of a couch, reading a book in the low light, clearly relishing the closest thing he ever found to peace and quiet.
A dozen faces turned as Lila and Alucard moved through the room, and she felt herself shrink toward the nearest shadow before she realized none of them were looking at her. It was the captain of the Night Spire who held their attention. Some nodded, others raised a hand or a glass, a few called out a greeting. He’d obviously made a few friends during his years at sea. Come to think of it, if Alucard Emery had made enemies, she hadn’t met one yet.
An Arnesian from the other rig waved him over, and rather than trail after, Lila made her way to the bar and ordered some kind of cider that smelled of apple and spice and strong liquor. She was several sips along before she turned her attention to the Veskan man a few feet down the bar.
The Spire crew called Veskans “choser”—giants—and she was beginning to understand why.
Lila tried not to stare—that is, she tried to stare without looking like she was staring—but the man was massive, even taller than Barron had been, with a face like a block of stone circled by a rope of blond hair. Not the bleached whitish blond of the Dane twins, but a honey color, rich in a way that matched his skin, as though he’d never spent a day in the shade.
His arms, one of which leaned on the counter, were each the size of her head; his smile was wider than her knife, but not nearly as wicked; and his eyes, when they shifted toward her, were a cloudless blue. The Veskan’s hair and beard grew together around his face, parting only for his wide eyes and straight nose, and made his expression hard to read. She couldn’t tell if she was merely being sized up, or challenged.
Lila’s fingers drifted toward the dagger at her hip, even though she honestly didn’t want to try her hand against a man who looked more likely to dent her knife than be impaled on it.
And then, to her surprise, the Veskan held up his glass.
“Is aven,” she said, lifting her own drink. Cheers.