Westhaven didn't welcome; it engulfed. The moment Ash and Preston stepped off the bone-dry plateau and into its muddy, chaotic embrace, the Salt Road's vast silence shattered. The air thickened into a potent stew of woodsmoke, rotting fish guts, unwashed humanity, tar, and the pervasive, briny tang of the wide, brown estuary. Shouts in a dozen dialects – guttural dockhand curses, melodic traders' calls, barked orders from ship captains – collided in a constant, discordant roar. Wharf rats, bold as bandits, skittered over coils of thick rope and piles of crated goods.
They melted into the flow, Perry's worn tunic and Ash's dust-caked cloak rendering them anonymous in the throng of laborers, sailors, and fellow drifters disembarking from caravans. Their immediate mission was clear: find passage south. Their coin pouch, lightened by necessary supplies on the Salt Road, felt dangerously thin against the scale of the task.
"Smoke," Ash murmured, using the name deliberately, grounding them both in their pact. He nodded towards the forest of masts crowding the waterfront. "The big ones won't look twice. Too expensive, too many questions." His eyes scanned the smaller vessels – sturdy coastal traders, sleek messenger cutters, and a few rakish, low-slung craft with patched sails that looked fast but dubious. "Need something heading down the coast. Towards the Nayiri currents."
"Something whose captain asks fewer questions than a Church Seeker," Preston added, her Perry persona instinctively tightening, shoulders hunching, eyes darting with calculated wariness. "And whose price isn't measured in gold alone." She'd seen the glances – the assessing stares from hard-faced men leaning against barrels, the predatory interest in the eyes of a woman hawking dubious remedies. Westhaven traded in everything, including people.
They spent hours navigating the labyrinthine docks, a harsh education in maritime economics and desperation. The reputable coastal traders demanded exorbitant fares or papers they didn't possess. One captain, a florid man with a gold tooth, eyed Preston speculatively. "Got room for a strong back, boy," he'd leered, ignoring Ash. "Work your passage. My cabin boy's… indisposed." Preston had merely spat near his polished boot and walked on, Perry's face a mask of sullen defiance, but Ash saw the tremor in her clenched fist.
The more disreputable options were worse. A greasy-haired broker offered passage on a 'swift clipper' whose crew looked like they'd slit throats for spare copper. Another captain, reeking of cheap rum, demanded payment upfront in silver, then winked. "Don't worry 'bout the destination, lads. We find somewhere that suits ya." The implied threat was palpable.
Frustration gnawed at them, sharper than hunger. The sheer scale of escape felt overwhelming. The sea, visible at the end of every dock, was no longer a symbol of freedom but a vast, indifferent barrier. Ash felt the familiar hollowness, the drained magic a silent void within him. He needed focus, not the frantic energy of the docks. He needed Smoke's sharp eyes.
He found a vantage point – a stack of empty grain barrels near a chandlery reeking of hemp and pine tar. "Watch," he said tersely to Preston. "Not the ships. The people. Who moves cargo without fuss? Who pays in goods, not coin? Who looks… efficient?"
Preston nodded, understanding instantly. She leaned against a barrel, Perry's guise perfect – a bored, grubby youth watching the world go by. Her eyes, however, became active instruments. She tracked the silent, muscled crew unloading bales of undyed wool onto a broad-beamed, double-masted trader called The Cormorant. No shouting, just coordinated grunts and efficient movement. She noted the captain – a lean woman with salt-and-pepper hair tied back severely, skin like weathered teak, observing everything with cold, grey eyes. She exchanged terse words with a fur trader, gesturing at the wool, then at crates being loaded – tools, iron ingots. Barter.
Then, Preston saw it. A man approached the captain, furtive. He offered a small, heavy-looking sack. The captain took it, hefted it, her expression unchanging. She opened it slightly. Not coin. Teeth. Large, yellowed, probably from marsh predators. She gave a curt nod, jerked her head towards the ship. The man scurried aboard.
"Ash," Preston murmured, barely moving her lips. "The Cormorant. Double-master. Captain's a woman. Grey eyes. Takes… unusual payment. Just took a man who paid in teeth."
Ash's gaze snapped to the ship. It wasn't beautiful, but it looked solid, seaworthy. The captain radiated a no-nonsense competence. Payment in teeth spoke of pragmatism over legality. "Teeth are proof of skill," Ash muttered. "Or desperation." He pushed off the barrels. "Our turn."
They approached as the last wool bale was secured. The captain – her name, they learned from a cursory glance at a manifest, was Varga – turned her flinty gaze on them. She didn't speak, just raised an eyebrow.
"Passage," Ash stated, his voice flat, cutting through the dock's din. "South. As far south as you sail."
Varga's eyes flickered over them: Ash's height, his ash-silver hair barely concealed by his hood, the quiet intensity; Preston in her Perry disguise, small but watchful, the lingering hardness around her eyes belying her youth. "Cargo?"
"Ourselves," Ash replied. "No goods. Just passage."
Varga snorted. "Passage costs. Coin?"
"Limited coin," Ash admitted, holding her gaze. "Other skills."
Varga's lips thinned. "Not running a charity, boy. South is long. Food, water, wear on the ship. Costs coin. Or equivalent value." Her gaze lingered on Ash. "You look like you can handle yourself. Strong back?" She glanced at Preston. "The lad? Useful?"
"Useful eyes," Preston interjected, Perry's voice raspy but firm. "See trouble coming. Can mend nets. Cook passably. Don't eat much." She met Varga's assessing stare without flinching.
Varga hummed, noncommittal. She looked past them, scanning the bustling dock. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Ash followed her gaze. Two men in stiff, dark blue tunics trimmed with silver braid – Westhaven's Harbor Watch – were making their way down the quay, stopping at each ship, examining papers, questioning captains. Their manner was officious, bored, but thorough.
"Trouble finds its own," Varga muttered, almost to herself. She looked back at Ash and Preston, a calculating glint in her grey eyes. "South is expensive. Especially for those who might attract… inconvenient questions." She nodded subtly towards the approaching Watch.
Ash understood the unspoken leverage. Their lack of papers, their fugitive aura, was a liability Varga could exploit, but also a reason she might take a risk – if the price was right. The hollowness within him pulsed. He needed to offer something tangible, something beyond labor. Something Varga couldn't get just anywhere.
He reached into the inner lining of his cloak, past the pouch of salt. His fingers closed around the only thing he'd saved from his old life, besides the clothes on his back and the knife at his belt. He pulled it out – Mr. Blair's whetstone. It wasn't fancy, just a smooth, dark river stone, one side worn perfectly flat from years of use. But it was high quality, imbued with the cook's meticulous care. Ash held it out.
"This," he said, his voice low. "Finest sharpening stone you'll find. Holds its grit. Keeps an edge like nothing else." He saw the faintest flicker of interest in Varga's eyes. A good cook or a fighter would recognize its value. "Belonged to a master bladesman." It wasn't a lie, not entirely. Mr. Blair's cleavers were legendary.
Varga took the stone, her calloused fingers testing its weight and smoothness. She pulled a wicked-looking gutting knife from her belt and drew it across the stone once, twice. The sound was a clean, sharp hiss. She examined the edge, then grunted, a sound of grudging approval.
The Harbor Watch was two ships away now.
Varga pocketed the whetstone. "Passage to Port Talon," she stated. "Last Nayiri port before the open sea routes. Takes two weeks, maybe three, depending on winds and coastal patrols. You work. Hard. Scrape decks, mend lines, help the cook, stand watch. You eat what the crew eats. You cause trouble, you swim. You attract the kind of trouble that boards my ship," her gaze flicked to the nearing Watch, "you deal with it before it reaches my deck, or you're over the side. Understood?"
Ash didn't hesitate. "Understood."
"Understood, Captain," Preston echoed, Perry's voice thick with relief and determination.
"Get aboard," Varga jerked her head towards The Cormorant. "Stow your gear below the forecastle. Find Borin – the cook. He'll put you to work." She turned to face the approaching Watch, her expression smoothing into one of bored impatience.
Ash and Preston scrambled up the gangplank as the Harbor Watch reached The Cormorant. The deck felt solid, alive beneath their feet, smelling of salt, tar, and fish. Below deck was cramped, dark, and reeked of bilgewater, damp wood, and generations of unwashed sailors. They found a cramped space near the bow, barely more than a storage cubby, and shoved their meager packs inside.
They emerged as the Watch finished their cursory inspection. Ash caught Varga's eye. She gave the slightest nod, then turned and bellowed orders to cast off. Lines were thrown, sails began to unfurl with a heavy, rhythmic clatter. The Cormorant groaned as it eased away from the dock.
Ash and Preston stood at the rail as Westhaven receded. The chaotic noise faded, replaced by the creak of timbers, the snap of canvas catching the wind, the slap of water against the hull. The brown estuary opened before them, leading to the vast, grey-green expanse of the sea.
They'd paid their blood price – Ash with Mr. Blair's stone, Preston with her silence and her watchful eyes, both with the promise of hard labor and constant vigilance. They were aboard. Bound for Port Talon. One step closer to Nayir.
Preston leaned her elbows on the weathered wood, breathing deep of the salt air. "Salt water looks different when you're floating on it, Salt," she murmured.
Ash watched the churning wake behind them, the white foam stark against the dark water. The hollowness remained, but the rhythmic motion of the ship, the vastness of the sea, felt… different. Not safe, but fluid. A new kind of wilderness. He glanced at Preston, her profile etched against the sky, already scanning the horizon like a born sailor. The journey had taken them from the acrid ash of betrayal, through the dust of the plains, and now onto the skin of the ocean. The refuge was still distant, a cluster of islands on a map. But here, now, aboard The Cormorant, bound south by a captain who traded in teeth and silence, they were exactly where they needed to be: moving, together, speaking the language of survival on a new, shifting stage. Salt and Smoke, riding the waves.