She couldn’t help any of this, but on occasion it was useful.
Brot’an stood waiting.
“Harbormaster?” Magiere repeated.
The young sailor blinked, swallowed, and cleared his throat, and Magiere wondered whether she’d used the correct words for what she was after. Brot’an hadn’t bothered correcting her, and his Numanese was better than hers. The sailor finally pointed to a faded wooden building nestled between two warehouses down the way he’d come.
“There,” he said, and blinked as he glanced over—and up—at Brot’an.
From what little Magiere knew, this continent boasted an elven people called the Lhoin’na. She didn’t know whether they looked different from the an’Cróan, and Brot’an was tall even for one of his kind. When his face wasn’t covered and his hood wasn’t up, his scars drew all the more attention.
“Thanks,” Magiere said, and quickly hurried on.
She led the way to the building the sailor had pointed out and found the door wide open. Loud voices carried from inside as she stepped in. Brot’an had to duck slightly to follow. They found themselves in a room with two large desks, a brass telescope of some kind aimed out the front window, and countless maps covering the walls.
Two men—one on either side of a desk—were shouting at each other. A stocky man in a bright blue vest in front of the desk huffed and puffed; his forehead and bloated cheeks were flushing red.
“You can’t deny my ship moorage! I want to speak to the harbormaster—now!”
“You’ll get the same from him,” snapped a spindly man in a yellowed muslin shirt behind the desk. His hair was unkempt, and he pushed his billowing sleeves up, left and then right, as if ready to go at his adversary with his bony fists. Instead he planted those fists on the desktop as he leaned forward. “Your ship’s too big!”
“I’ve docked at smaller piers than these,” the stocky one shot back.
“Well, you won’t get to here. Unload it by skiff or let your cargo rot!”
“That’ll take days, and you know it!”
“Better than your fat hull taking out one of our piers.” The slender clerk straightened, dropped into his chair, and began ruffling papers. “Good day, Captain.”
The stocky captain’s reddened coloring shifted to something like a plum.
“We’ll see about this! I’ll be back when your master is here.” He turned and strode out past Magiere and Brot’an without seeming to notice them.
“Won’t do you any good,” the slender man muttered.
Magiere followed spoken Numanese a little better than she spoke it. Apparently the harbormaster wasn’t in, and the muttering young clerk at the desk had ink stains on all of his fingers, as if he normally worked with quill and paper. Arguing with captains was probably not part of his daily duties.
“Can you help us?” she asked.
“With what?” the man answered sharply, not even looking up.
“We need passage on ... a ship ... to south,” she said, or tried to say, “leaving ... soon.”
“Do I look like a purser to you?” he returned.
Magiere didn’t catch that one Numanese word, but his tone hit her the wrong way. She took an angry step in toward the desk.
Brot’an instantly shifted in, and when she glanced his way, his narrowed eyes were fixed on her.
She knew her own eyes had probably darkened, as the room had brightened in her sight, burning her eyes. Her irises must have widened, swallowing some of their dark brown into black—as they did when she was on the edge of losing control.
Brot’an slipped in front of her and up to the desk.
“Could you direct us to a ship?” he asked the clerk, who was still hunched over the papers. “Or perhaps the best area of the port to find one heading south ... and willing to take passengers?”
For the first time, the man looked up at them—up at Brot’an—and he blinked a few times in silence. They both stood out too much, but maybe their appearance was intimidating enough to warrant an answer.
“Forgive me,” the clerk returned. “It’s been a long ... What did you need?”
“A ship,” Magiere repeated, “heading south, leaving today.”
He shook his head. “I’d have no knowledge of captains willing to take on passengers. But most southbounders dock at the south end, so when they leave port they don’t cross paths with those headed to Beranklifer Bay, Dhredze Seatt, or up the Northlander coast.” He looked back down at his paperwork. “Try down there. Best I can offer.”
Feeling anger rise again, Magiere was tempted to grab him and jerk him over the desk.
“Thank you,” Brot’an said and turned right into Magiere, murmuring, “That is all we will get from him. We try the southern docks on our own.”
Magiere backed away, blinking repeatedly until the room’s brightness faded and no longer stung her eyes. She spun out of the harbormaster’s office, pausing barely long enough for Brot’an to catch up. Her temper did not improve.
Why was it so hard to control that hunger-driven rage and lock it away anymore?
Then she noted that Brot’an appeared almost worried as he gazed south along the waterfront. This was strange compared to his usual passive expression, and somehow she doubted that it had to do with all the docks they’d have to wander. Then she remembered Leanâlhâm’s mention of Brot’an speaking with their last ship’s crew.
Magiere was determined to leave this place as quickly as possible to evade any pursuit, and Brot’an had started on that even before they’d reached port. He seemed almost as driven as she was; yet he knew far less than she did about where to go after they reached their destination.
Her anger toward the less-than-helpful clerk shifted to Brot’an, so full of secrets he guarded like treasures. He evaded every question about his real purpose, and she was sick of it.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, trying to be coy.
Lost in his own concerns, Brot’ân’duivé—the Dog in the Dark—had almost forgotten Magiere’s unstable state as he moved swiftly along the waterfront.
They needed to get off this isle. The others might be worried about pursuit, but he was certain of it—as he had ensured it. He did not want the anmaglâhk team remaining behind in Calm Seatt. They would plague Wynn Hygeorht in her efforts to locate the final orb. And only he was capable of dealing with members of his own caste.
He wanted them following him.
“What are you thinking?”
The question—too quiet and pointed—caught him off guard. He had slipped into introspection. When he slowed, he found that Magiere had stopped two paces behind and stood there, studying him.
Had he been careless, let his thoughts show on his face? No, she was simply suspicious by nature—and that was useful.
“I was thinking of our pressing need of a ship,” he replied.
“More than Leesil or me, you’ve been rushing,” she answered coolly. “Even to questioning the ship’s crew before we arrived. What haven’t you shared with the rest of us?”
He had underestimated her, but he had no response, so he walked on. She surprised him again, stepping ahead into his path and forcing him to halt.
On the passage here, she had tried to force answers from him: any information concerning what had brought him all this way and why he was protecting her from his own caste. He would eventually have to tell her something, perhaps even part of the truth, but he had been waiting for a moment when they were alone.
They were alone now.
Without a word, Magiere turned away, but not down the waterfront. She walked into a cutway between two front warehouses that led to an alley behind them. Halting halfway down near a stack of crates, she looked back at him, waiting. He closed on her, stepping into the shadows between the buildings.