“I’m well aware, sir. And I would’ve sailed back much faster had the pickings not been so slim.”
“You mean to tell me you hunted through the migration season and it still took youeight monthsto sail back with a full hull?”
“Correct,” Rowell seethes, dropping his sack and planting his fist upon the table. He leans forward. “I lost three men out there. Good men with women and children I now have to visit, look right in the eye, and tell ‘em their pa ain’t coming home. Sooner or later yuh gonna have to bribe people to do this shit, and that’s the fuckin’ truth.”
A shiver runs up my spine as I look between the men, the ten soldiers standing guard with sharp eyes and hands clutched around their spears.
“Well,” Grimsley ponders, procuring a handkerchief from his breast pocket, using it to wipe Rowell’s spittle off his face. “Not today. Today, I won’t even be paying you for the oil—at least until I’ve seen your ledgers, spoken with some of your crew, and am certain you haven’t docked in Rouste or Ocruth and delivered to them for a premium in the months you’ve been away. I trust you’ve kept the records up to date?”
I lift a brow.
We haven’t purchased from whaling ships in years, and even then, it was only because our olive yield was down due to a particularly bad patch of weather. We paid a heavy premium—Cainon’s demand in exchange for his expended resources since he owns the fucking ships—but I have no doubt that ended up padding the right pockets. The sailors were tipped handsomely and had no reason to skim the top. It was averylucrative year for Bahari. Which begs the question … why is the narrative suddenly being soured?
Perhaps they thinned the ocean too much and they’re looking for someone else to point at.
“Of course I kept my records up to date,” Rowell sneers, before spitting on the ledger spread across Grimsley’s desk. “Go find them yuhself. Block yuh nose on the way down. We ran into some weather and it smells like puke.”
He picks up his sack and spins, storming past me on his way down the street, muttering curse words.
Interesting.
Grimsley clears his throat, cleaning the spit off his ledger with his handkerchief before tossing it in the bin.
Frowning, I flip my dagger into its sheath and pull my hood lower, noting the Ocruth barge has finally docked. Weary passengers are disembarking, pushing carts or carrying baskets on their backs with babies wrapped close to their chests and wide-eyed children clinging to their legs.
One of the soldiers drags a thick chain across the cobbled ground, rattling the silence. It’s clipped high on another post, creating a barricade the men, women, and children are expected to line up behind.
A blow of wind stirs through them, dragging the sharp scent of fear straight past my nose.
My frown deepens, senses prickling.
A dark-haired man wearing the red cloak of a merchant is let past the chain, dragging his cart packed full of wares. Soldiers descend like vultures, swiftly scouring its contents. Clearing his throat, the merchant steps close to the table, casting nervous glances at a woman with two children still stuck behind the chain.
“Name?” Grimsley asks, quill poised.
“Ruslan, sir.”
A horse and cart stacked with baited shellfish pots ambles between the tackle shop and the tent, momentarily breaking my view.
Grimsley’s scratching at the page. “Why have you come to Parith?”
“I’m a traveling merchant, sir.”
“Official paperwork?”
Ruslan hands over a scroll, which Grimsley unrolls, studying it, jotting something on the ledger. “You’ll have to get a new one printed while you’re here. This one’s starting to fade.”
“Yes, sir.”
One of the small children dips beneath the chain, scoots past a swooping soldier, and latches onto Ruslan’s leg.
Grimsley frowns, looking from the child to the woman behind the chain cradling the younger one close. “Do you also speak for these people?”
“Yes, sir,” Ruslan says, nodding. “My family.”
Grimsley waves them forward, and a soldier loosens the chain to let the woman and her young pass.
“Refugees?”
