Page 4 of Bound and Tide

Xander jerked forward, his shoulder struck. Noxscura surged into his palm, but he pulled it back when he saw the man who had pushed past him. While he would have deserved a shadow or two driven into his head, it would require more than a couple to take the stranger down, as wide across as an ox and twice as ugly.

Nearly everyone toiling in the upturned ship was just as huge. Not unpleasant to look at, he thought, then grimaced—there was almost always an unspoken contest amongst men like that to see who could be biggest in one way or another, and that often involved pushing around whoever they thought didn’t belong.

Xander straightened his coat, ignoring the unwelcome memory of similar contests he’d been thrust into far too young. It was clear that he was the one here who didn’t belong, and while he kept himself strong and agile, he never dedicated the time to pack on muscle when his arcana was more than enough.

He could take a whole host of ruffians, of course, but these men didn’t know that, and he wasn’t keen on letting them find out the hard way. Nor was he himself keen on finding out that the arcana he’d always trusted in had become as unreliable as a ship-jumping sailor.

He swept himself away from the door and to the closest desk where a grizzled older man was bent over a ledger, scratching out numbers by the light of a candle. “I’m looking for someone,” he said, voice low.

The man’s eyes—or eye, the other socket empty and dark—lifted to him. “Not trying to scrounge up work?”

Xander held his uncalloused hands out, corner of his mouth twitching. “Do I look like I belong on a boat?”

The singular pale eye flicked down him and back up. “I’ve got a few crews that wouldn’t complain about having ya while they’re out at sea.”

Xander chose to take that as a compliment and wiped his hands down his as-of-yet-still-unmuddied front. “Undoubtedly the pleasure would be all theirs. No, I’m looking for a specific man.”

“Nobody’s got the name of every sailor, but I got a good look at which boats are in and outta port. Know what ship he’s on?”

The blood mage shook his head.

“Then the name will have to do. Let’s have it.”

Xander opened his mouth, but his breath caught instead. Like he were out on the ocean himself, being pitched back and forth and inundated with the rot of fish carcasses baking in the sun, his stomach turned over. He’d never said it aloud before, but why in all the realms would that matter? He contemplated handing over the parchment in his pocket before swallowing back the thickness in his throat. No, for fuck’s sake, it didn’t matter. “I’m looking for Stavros Vasileio.”

The man’s single eye blinked. “Never heard of him.”

There had been something building inside Xander without his permission, and with the simple words of a stranger, that thing cracked straight down its middle with…disappointment? Solace? Grief?

Pathetic.

“You can check with the longshoremen or try another portmaster. And maybe a stop by The Wiley Otter if he’s on the grog more than usual.”

Xander nodded, gaze lifting to the shadows above.

“There are three traders still out, due in this week. Don’t know if the captains will share their rosters, but you can always catch them unloading.”

Another nod, the shadows churning as if there were a face within them, but Xander couldn’t recognize it—could never recognize it. His voice went lower than before. “And the ships that are already here?”

“You can ask after him, if you want, but most have docked for the season. Only a few are set to leave off South Port, but I’d avoid The Ocean’s Dagger if I were as pretty as you, unless you want to leave with it.”

That knocked a little sense back into the blood mage, and he scoffed, “Protect my honor, oh benevolent gods.” Then he stood taller. “Well, marvelous. I’ll be back then, what, tomorrow for the next arrival? What time?”

The man shrugged. “Tomorrow maybe. Maybe the day after. Maybe next week. Wind and magic are fickle.”

“Just like men.” Xander frowned and turned on his heel, heading back out the way he’d come.

When he stepped out of the musty building and into the heavy air of the dock, he could finally feel that thing churning inside him clearly: relief. It filled him up, replacing whatever had been scrabbling along in his guts making him feel…well, feel. The whole plan was preposterous anyway, not to mention difficult. One had to weigh the investment against the potential acquisition, and, really, what was there even to gain?

Well, arcana, he supposed. And it was as much about gaining as it was about losing.

What about me, you fool?

The sun broke through the clouds in a blinding ray that seemed meant just for Xander’s eyes. He turned away from it, marching himself down the wharf and into the shadows of empty cargo crates. Noxscura pummeled at his palm inside his closed fists, and the briny air prodded at his skin like it wanted in. There had to be another way, one man would be impossible to find in a city, and even if he found him, the chances he could teach him, would teach him—

“What does Stavros owe you?”

Xander’s breath caught. It had been strange enough saying the name, but hearing it on another tongue was perhaps even stranger. “Quite a bit,” he quipped, turning slowly to look over his shoulder.

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