"She's going to have questions."
"Then don't stay long enough for her to ask them." He picked the caulking iron back up. "Go now. I want to be at the dock tavern by five."
Dex pushed off the rail without further comment. Rafe watched him go, the short frame disappearing up the bank road toward the western path, and the wolf pressed harder against his ribs. Every instinct in him wanted to be the one walking that path. Wanted to be at her table, in her kitchen, close enough to catch her scent and hear the low careful way she spoke when she was deciding whether to trust him with something. He wanted that more than he wanted answers from a man who'd been poisoning his trade routes for a decade.
But wanting didn't fix ships. And it didn't stop Malrick.
He finished the caulking join, cleaned the iron, stowed it, and went to change his shirt. If he was going to face Malrick Sloane across a table, he was going to do it looking like a man who still had everything under control.
The dockside tavern was half full at five. Freight crews finishing their day, a few locals who preferred the rougher atmosphere to the Silver Fang's polish, Petch behind the bar wiping glasses. The light came in low through the west-facing windows, catching the dust in the air, turning the room amber.
The light and Rafe’s eyes stopped when they hit the corner table. Malric.
Rafe had expected to have to look for him. Instead, the man was sitting in plain sight with a glass of something dark and a posture that said he'd been waiting. He looked exactly the way Rafe remembered and nothing like it. The same lean frame, the same sharp features, the same dark hair swept back from a face that managed to look refined even in a river tavern. But there was more gray at the temples now. More lines around the mouth. The eyes were the same, though. Pale brown, warm on the surface and calculating underneath.
He was wearing a coat that cost more than most captains made in a month. He had a bottle on the table, not the tavern's house stock. Something imported, dark glass, no label Rafe recognized from this stretch of river.
Malrick saw him come in. Smiled. The smile of a man welcoming an old friend to dinner.
"Lupeus." He gestured to the empty chair across from him. "I was wondering when you'd get around to finding me."
Rafe pulled the chair out and sat. The table was small. The distance between them was less than three feet. Close enough to read the threadwork on Malrick's coat. Close enough to smell the whiskey.
"You've been busy," Rafe said.
"I've been visiting. Hollow Oak is charming. The kind of town that rewards patience." Malrick poured a second glass from the bottle and slid it across. "Drink?"
"No."
"Suit yourself." He picked up his own glass. "How's the ship?"
"You know how the ship is. You've had someone watching the dock since before I arrived."
"I keep informed. It's a professional habit." He sipped. "The bow rail looks particularly unfortunate. Storm damage?"
Rafe said nothing, just looked unimpressed. “Say what you need to say and get on with it.”
Malrik’s eyes narrowed slightly. "I know what the weather did to your ship. I also know that weather on this stretch of river has been notably unpredictable for the last year." He set the glass down. "Interesting place to run regular trade, given the conditions."
Rafe leaned back in the chair and noticed Petch was at the far end of the bar, not looking their direction, which meant he was listening carefully.
"Let's skip the part where you pretend this is a coincidence," Rafe said. "You're renting a room at the Hargrove place. You've been here six days. You arrived before I did, which means you knew my route schedule before I docked."
"Your route schedule isn't classified information, Rafe. You file with every harbourmaster on the channel."
"And you read every filing. The way you read my Kellert bid six years ago."
Something moved behind Malrick's eyes. A flicker of amusement at the memory, maybe. Or satisfaction that it still stung.
"The Kellert account was business," Malrick said. "You lost a contract. It happens."
"I lost a contract because you stole my bid numbers. My cargo specs. My rate negotiations. Information you had no legitimate way of accessing."
"And yet no one ever proved that."
"I didn't need proof. I knew the shape of it. I still do."
Malrick turned his glass on the table, the amber liquid catching light. "You always were stubborn about the Kellert thing. As if one account defined a career."
