“Hundred Isles,” Safi repeated softly. “And what do you expect me to do once I’m there?”
“I was simply told to leave you. I have no idea why, since it’s a ghost town, but the compensation is too good for me to ignore: a trade agreement with the Hasstrels.”
Safi’s eyebrows bounced high. “You do realize that our estate is practically crown-owned, our farmers are half-starved, and we have no money left.”
“Any contract,” Merik said, jaw clenching, “is better than what Nubrevna currently has. If I can open trade with a single Cartorran estate, then I’ll take it.”
Safi nodded absently, no longer listening. When Merik had said contract, his eyes had slid to a rolled-up scroll at the edge of the table. Yet before Safi could ask about it, her stomach growled. “What of food, Prince?”
“You didn’t eat enough at the ball?” Merik offered a grin.
But Safi couldn’t smile back. The ball and the Nubrevnan four-step were a lifetime ago.
As if reading her mind, Merik’s smile faltered. He fiddled with his collar. “I didn’t realize it would be you, Domna. Had I known at the ball that you were my passenger—” He shrugged, his mind clearly turning inward. His thoughts tumbling aloud. “I suppose I would have taken you to the Jana and saved us both a lot of time and trouble. But your name wasn’t on my Wordwitched contract until after I left the party. Even then, I didn’t realize you were the Domna of Hasstrel.”
Safi nodded, unsurprised. Eron had needed her at the party as his distracting right hand, and his plan would never have worked if Merik had carried her away too soon.
More important, Merik would never have agreed to carry Safi at all had he known to whom she would end up betrothed.
A silence spread, broken only by the groaning wood and shouting sailors. Merik turned his attention to the charts—and Safi couldn’t resist studying him.
Although she knew Merik must be the same age as Leopold, he seemed so much older. His shoulders were broad and high, the muscles oft-used, while his skin was sun-darkened and rough. At the moment, a triangular crease burrowed between his eyebrows, as if he frowned often.
Merik took his duties as prince and admiral seriously. Safi didn’t need her magic to know that—and an unexpected dread cinched in her chest. She didn’t want Merik hurt by her uncle’s schemes. As far as she could tell, she and Merik were both just puppets. Both just cards being played against their will.
The Queen of Bats and the King of Foxes, she thought fancifully … Then more savagely: Or perhaps we have no taro suit at all, and we’re both just Fools.
Merik adjusted his collar and glanced at the door. “Food is on the way, Domna, so clean up. And for both our sakes, please scrub well.” Again, he offered a slight smile before marching briskly from the cabin. Safi watched him go, waiting until he was firmly outside the cabin …
The door clicked shut, and in less than a heartbeat, she had dived to the scroll and unfurled it.
Written in a familiar script was exactly what Merik had described.
This agreement is between Eron fon Hasstrel and Merik Nihar of Nubrevna. Merik Nihar will provide passage for Safiya fon Hasstrel, from Veñaza City in the Dalmotti Empire to Lejna in Nubrevna. Upon the passenger’s safe delivery to the seventh pier in Lejna, negotiations for a trade agreement will begin.
All negotiations on page two of this contract will terminate should Merik Nihar fail to bring the passenger to Lejna, should the passenger spill any blood, or should the passenger die.
Safi flipped to the second page, which was filled with dull language like “imports” and “market value.” She rubbed the pages between her fingers. They were light and filmy.
Wordwitchery. And since the handwriting was clearly Mathew’s, Safi knew whose magic it was.
It was the same sort of document as the Twenty Year Truce. Once the bargain was fulfilled, Merik and Uncle Eron could alter the contract’s language and negotiate over great distances.
Safi flipped to the end of the document. It bore the usual language—identical, in fact, to the final page of the Truce.
If all parties are in agreement, then they must sign below. Should any party fail to meet the terms agreed upon, his or her name will vanish from this document.
A knock sounded at the door.
Safi jumped—then she shoved the contract pages back together. “Just a moment!”
“I have food for you,” a muffled voice answered.
Kullen. The brutish first mate. She tossed the contract onto the table before shooting to the back of the room. After dunking a cloth into the barrel, she called, “Come in!”
Then Safi hardened her face. She would cooperate with her new allies, but at any sign of trouble—at any hint that Kullen might take her breath again—Safi was claiming control. There were swords within easy reach and a contract that said she couldn’t spill any blood.
SEVENTEEN
Merik strode across the Jana’s main deck, scowling into the hot sun. Getting Safiya fon Hasstrel to Lejna without incident might prove harder than he’d planned. She behaved like she fought, like she danced—pushing people to the edge and testing their limits.
It hardly helped that Safiya’s legs had been on display since he’d rescued her, distractingly paler than her arms and face. It was that pallor that unnerved Merik. The undeniable fact that he was seeing skin meant only for a lover’s eyes.
Merik expelled a rough breath. Thinking of Safiya fon Hasstrel in an intimate capacity was not wise. Whenever he considered her—or was near her—the Nihar rage kindled. Boiled up hot and fast.