”I don’t take the kind of passengers that don’t show up on manifests.”
”You’re a wise captain. But we’re just talking about some cargo.”
”Oh yeah? Oddly passenger-shaped cargo.”
The sounds of gold coins clinking paused the conversation, a sizable bag hitting the table before being slid across.
”Nonsense, it was in a crate when you loaded it, and what kind of wisdom is it to open your customer’s cargo?”
”... does it eat?”
”Only what it already has in the crate. Though it might-” Another, smaller clinking as a few more loose coins landed next to the sack. ”-need to stretch out its legs, find a proper hammock to sleep in. Until you arrive, at least.”
”... a blanket or two on the floor’s the best it gets. Sundown tomorrow, get in the one marked for Caldur’s in Antiva City.” The sound of coins being pocketed, then a quick pause. ”And if a Crow shows up, then there isn’t enough gold in the entire world. Understand?”
”I understand.” One last coin, and Rahse would don his hat, shoulder his coat, and shuffle out of the dingy shanty into the street. With passage secured, his and Leena’s plan was set to go as far as Antiva itself, putting the bulk of the distance they’d need between themselves and Bastien behind them. The trek to Arlathan itself from Antiva City would be its own challenge, but in a more foreign land with fewer threats to chase them, they’d have better odds of stopping to make some money, to find some opportunities, to travel days alone rather than day-and-night as they’d done.
Truly a high bar, traveling only when the sun lit the way. Rahse couldn’t wait, the growing bags under his eyes testament to their vigilance so far.
Exhaustion aside, it still couldn’t stymie a smile as he returned down the block to the small restaurant he’d agreed to meet with Leena in, taking up a table by the rear entrance as discussed. Ordering a bowl of soup, he would bat an eye at the coppers as they were taken; not their last since they’d begun to sell off whatever they could in the city, but money wasted purely for appearances all the same. He would indulge a few spoonfuls before deciding to save the rest for her, not hungry enough to truly justify the expense.
With a barely-touched meal before him and the exit behind, he would sit back, pull down his hat, and keep his eyes to the back door. When this was all over and they were safe, when life on the run was a sour memory and nothing more, he would need to make it up to Leena for so many skipped and paltry meals.
Maybe he would try to grab some chocolates in Antiva.
It felt as if every new place they went held more people than she had ever seen, and Kirkwall was no different. In fact, it took that sentiment to a faintly ridiculous extreme — how could there be so many people in the whole world? Leena could not fathom it. How did the city feed them all?
Wrapped in her cloak, lingering behind the restaurant, Leena watched and listened as others went about their day. Dishwashers and servers, who also visited the alley, gave her questioning looks while she smiled and begged off. Not a bit of it was a lie. She was waiting for someone.
But oh, if they stayed here, if things didn’t work out with the ship … She could do these sorts of jobs, she knew it. It didn’t seem much different from serving in Lord Frost’s kitchens. If only she could work up her courage and just ask. Though the longer Leena thought about it, the more doubts began to creep in.
They wouldn’t be safe until they left the Marches, where Bastien might have mysterious influence over local authorities. If even half of Rahse’s wild tales were true, he wouldn’t stay forever – not if she showed signs of putting down roots as a common kitchen scullion. The worst part was, she couldn’t quite blame him for it; not even the imaginary version of him that lived in her head.
After all, she wanted adventures too. Wouldn’t be much opportunity for that here.
Soon enough, it was time to go in. Leena slipped in the rear entrance, smiling as she spotted Rahse sitting alone. She dropped into the chair across from him, brows climbing as he pushed his bowl over to her.
“What? You don’t like it?” She gave the cloudy reddish broth her full attention, lifting the spoon and chasing around a chunk of flaky white fish. It smelled okay. Bringing the spoon to her lips, she tasted it and shrugged. Tomato and smoky paprika were the overwhelming flavors.
“Seems fine to me. You have to eat, Rahse.” Turning her head to scan the restaurant, she waved down one of the servers she’d spoken to outside. She ordered another bowl of soup and a basket of bread before Rahse could object. After the sale of Larissa Frost’s jewels, a single meal wouldn’t bankrupt them.
Kirkwall’s docks were never quiet, not truly, but the stretch of street lined with scattered stalls had a different kind of rhythm than the chaos of Lowtown’s markets. Fewer voices clamored for attention, and the merchants here knew when to let silence do the haggling. Siora moved through the thinning crowd, one hand resting lightly on her coin pouch, the other idly skimming over the meager offerings.
She hadn’t come here with a purpose beyond finding something small—just a token, something to thank Danny for stepping in a few nights past. The tavern brawl had started the way most did: too much drink, too much pride, and too many people looking to prove something. She’d thought herself quick enough to duck the worst of it, but she’d misjudged the swing of a drunken fist, blackening one eye.
Danny had stepped in before a second blow landed. She hadn’t expected him to—he had no real reason to. And yet, there he was, defusing the fight with that easy grin and an open-palmed gesture that somehow made the drunk think twice. It wasn’t just that he had her back; he had a way of pulling the world along with him, guiding its weight with a careful hand. A skill learned from years of surviving Kirkwall’s underbelly, no doubt.
That was the part that still gave her pause.
Danny was tied to the underbelly of the city—smugglers, black-market dealers, and the criminal currents that ran through the city like veins beneath the skin. She knew it, even if he never spoke of it outright. And yet, for all that, he was one of the few people she was beginning to trust. He’d never asked her for anything, never tried to pull her into the schemes and debts that kept the taverns chatting. Maybe that would change, maybe it wouldn’t, but for now, she owed him a drink—or at least a gesture of thanks.
Her eyes landed on a small blade displayed on a weathered cloth, its edge simple but sharp, the handle crafted with an unexpected level of care—finely carved wood, with faint engravings curling along its surface. Not ostentatious, but well-made. Practical. She ran a thumb over the hilt, feeling the balance in her palm. Danny would appreciate it, not just as a weapon, but as something useful.
She paid quickly, tucking the blade into her belt pouch before glancing over her shoulder. The habit never faded, even after months of keeping her head low. Nothing about Bastien’s arrival in Kirkwall had reached her ears—not a whisper, not a warning. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t here. He was patient, and patience in men like him was more dangerous than rage. If he was looking for her, he wouldn’t be loud about it. He would move in the spaces between things, like he always had, until he was close enough to remind her how little distance she had truly put between them.
And then there was her sister. No word of her, either. No one in Kirkwall would know what became of her, but that didn’t stop the gnawing weight of uncertainty from pressing at the edges of her thoughts. No news was better than bad news, she supposed. But the silence felt like a noose, tightening inch by inch.
Shaking the thoughts from her mind, she let her steps take her through the winding streets until she found herself near a small, familiar corner.
A modest restaurant spilled warm light onto the road, the scent of soup and fresh bread curling into the air. It was as good a place as any to play. She settled onto an upturned crate, adjusting the worn leather strap of her lute before plucking a few idle notes.
The song would come naturally, as it always did—perhaps something light, rolling like the tide, or something sharper, edged with the bite of Kirkwall’s streets. Danny would probably laugh at whatever she chose, quick with some teasing remark, but she liked that about him. Today it was a sailor's ballad, something to encourage and boost the morale of the dock workers still going about their business. She'd stay an hour or so, see what coin - if any - she could weasel out before moving on back into the Lowtown taverns, back to familiar company and maybe get Danny that drink she owed.
For a moment, there was just the gravity of the day. Another nightfall spent planning escapes, another evening staring at the moon trying to find fifty different ways to stay three steps ahead, preferably four. The look it left on Rahse’s face was more dour than he perhaps meant, but it served well all the same; between his hands clasping in front of him, elbows on the table, and hood up, it was clear he didn’t want company.
But then there was Leena sitting down across from him, and he’d take a deep breath of relief the moment their eyes connected. And as if automatic, his hands would unclasp, one pushing his food to her, the other finding her non-dominant hand and lacing their fingers. And with that simple touch, he’d seem to melt, just for a moment, his body language changing head to toes to that of blessed gratitude.
”I will, I will.” Simply holding her fingers for a moment, he’d sit back up, straighter. Keeping his hood on, he’d pick at his hair beneath it, as if trying to look better for her and her alone. ”Just don’t have the stomach for fish at the moment, the docks were at low tide.” Truthfully, he hadn’t noticed during the conversation, but it really had been foul.
”We’ve been promised a crate and a blanket or two, the former marked for Caldur’s in Antiva City. The rest is up to us. As for the captain himself…” Shrugging softly, Rahse would hum quietly, his lips flattening in consideration for a moment, forming his sentence carefully. ”... well, he’s a businessman, certainly. Happy to take our coin, but I would hazard just as happy to take someone else’s as well. We shouldn’t rely on him if we can help it.” The din of the tavern rose slightly as the sound of lute tuning cut through softly, apparent but sweet. Glancing off to the side, Rahse would idly identify its source, a woman sat atop a crate, a minstrel of some caliber or another, getting ready to ply her trade and-
… he would squint, eyes locking to the woman’s face before darting back toward Leena’s. His gaze would repeat the process twice more before settling back down on the table, keeping the other woman in his periphery. Releasing Leena’s hand, his own would find its way under the table, thumbing the hilt of his shortsword, adjusting its angle just a bit.
”Darling, when I say so, we need to get up and laugh softly and make our way toward the rear entrance. Act as if I’ve said something alluring, and we’re off on a tryst.” Glancing in the direction of the luteist, he would include the slightest of nods, trying to direct Leena’s eyes.
”They’ve sent someone to double as you.” A bold strategy for a woman with a little social stature as a kitchen maid. How many Kintargans would spread word of a lowly commoner killed in some bar fight? Most would presume it was about money, or kids, or worse.
But to cover up a kidnapping, to put any witnesses at ease and dispute claims of screaming and bleeding and struggle in the street as she was thrown into a cart and bound… still more trouble than a double might be worth in gold, but they had no doubt wounded the lord’s pride. There was no telling what sick narrative he’d landed on in all the aftermath.
