CHAPTER 31: BLURRED BOUNDARIES
With more relics than could be safely stored inside one’s ramshackle drawer, Elias, Bertrand, and Briley determined it was high time they set up a bank account for The Two Worlds Trading Company. The dry, dusty summer had transformed into a wet, sopping autumn in Sailor’s Rise, and the trio had just completed their second shipment for Sultan Atakan, reeling from the seasonal whiplash of flying out of a scorching desert city into the misty air of their present one.
Between their biggest client and the modest jobs they collected in between, the business had—for once in its short life—managed to maintain a healthy profit margin, partly owing to the fact that its owners were not paying themselves very much. Elias and Briley knew intimately the value of a relic, and Bertrand was in less desperate need of them. If there was one thing they could agree on, it was that they didn’t want to end up back where they had been a mere two seasons ago, always one bad month away from losing it all.
Thus, a bank account: it offered another form of security for a modest fee. The century-old Trader’s Bank was, according to Bertrand, the other hand of the Trader’s Guild. One wielded political power, the other financial, he explained, but you follow each arm up and it was the same people controlling both, despite any pretenses to the contrary. In a city like Sailor’s Rise, loans were often as critical as laws—and even more far-reaching. The bank had clients from all across the Great Continent.
But more than this, it was the Trader’s Bank that, in a rather literal sense, determined the true value of a relic. While the world had its universal currency, kingdoms and republics of every ilk still traded in all manner of coin—from coppers in the east to rupas in the west—and it was the Trader’s Bank that converted them to relics. And thus, it was the Trader’s Bank that wielded power over pretty much of everyone. You could close borders with a despot, the saying went, but no one could deny the bank its due.
The generations-old building itself was classic yet impenetrable, grand yet conservative—the virtues expected of such an institution. The pillared stone structure formed one corner of the Crown, a sprawling three-way intersection marking the pinnacle of Hightown. The bank stood at the north end of this busy intersection, accompanied by its two and only equals: the House of Merchants to the southeast and the Trader’s Hall to the southwest, the beating hearts of democracy and commerce respectively. Together and true to the neighborhood’s colloquial name, they formed the three-pronged crown that sat atop Sailor’s Rise, both in appearances and for all intents and purposes.
The interior of the Trader’s Bank was no less regal and far more resplendent. Its gold-veined marble floor provided a heavenly contrast to the dark, mahogany booths arranged in a ring around the center of the building’s main hall. Orderly lines spiraled outward from the booths, clients queuing up like ants before the colony.
The novelty of it all wore off first for Briley, and then Elias, and then even Bertrand. A process they imagined unfolding over thirty minutes unraveled into a three-hour affair with application after application, lines just to stand in other lines, and a number of seemingly minute but apparently consequential decisions regarding how they wanted their account set up.
At the end of this marathon, Elias was struck by a sudden bolt of discomfort as they unlocked and slid forward two cash boxes brimming with a combined three thousand relics. He had to remind himself that their hard-earned money would be safer here than anywhere else, or at least the bank teller assured them as much. And they were nothing if not relieved to finally get this over with.
* * *
From the Crown of Hightown, they had trudged the grueling, muddy road back to Lowtown and the district’s ramshackle docks with nothing to cover their heads. By the end of their downward journey, they might as well have rolled out of the ocean. They fanned a fire in the great cabin of The Sapphire Spirit, listening to its pops and the ceaseless patter upon their wooden ceiling as raindrops raced down their paned glass view of the city.
Rain had been a rare and welcome occurrence in Sapphire’s Reach, and Elias still found comfort in its company. Rain washed away the expectation of a hard day, and it was clear that their ordeal at the Trader’s Bank had left them in desperate need of a break—and perhaps a few drinks. The workday was hastily abandoned the moment Bertrand popped open a bottle of mead brought back from their most recent trip to Azir.
“I named her,” Briley said after a sip.
“Named who?” Bertrand inquired.
“The cat. We said we would name her. That was summer.”
Over the months since her adoption, their shy kitten had gradually blossomed into an affectionate young cat, claiming The Sapphire Spirit as her singular home. Mable Fairweather was allegedly deathly allergic to cats, and neither Elias nor Briley felt their respective apartments were appropriate accommodation for an animal. As the ship doubled as their sole office when they were not out sailing the skies, this arrangement worked out best for everyone, as it meant they could all spend time with her. Indeed, they had grown fond of their feline companion, almost by accident and despite not giving her a name.
“Let’s hear it,” Elias said.
“The pattern on her fur reminds me of the way islands look when you see them from the sky,” Briley explained, referencing the black-and-white cat coiled like a snail’s shell on the bed by the door. “The Broken Isles is peppered with countless unnamed, uninhabited islands. These tiny islands have a name: islets. Anyway, I got thinking… Islet: separate from her pack, yet a sanctuary for those who wash upon her furry shores.”
Elias had never heard Briley speak so eloquently. “Fits like a glove,” he said.
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Bertrand looked positively flabbergasted. “That’s lovely, Briley. Our little Islet.”
They turned back toward their newly named pet like parents after a recital. While occasionally claimed by others, the skinny bed had quickly become Islet’s more than anyone else’s. The three humans were comfortably seated on oak benches at the long wooden table (presently covered in mead and paperwork) that took up most of the stern-spanning cabin, staring at the sleeping cat.
Alas, Briley’s comfort ended the second Elias spotted a half-written letter resting on the small desk across from Islet’s bed. “Another love letter to your lady friend?” he asked her.
She immediately rolled her eyes.
Unlike a certain cat, the tavern keeper Briley kept in constant contact with had a name. Hardly a week went by before Zeyna Darya would send Briley another long, meandering letter, each one as philosophical as it was romantic. They had learned over wine that Zeyna saw connections everywhere. On more than one occasion, Elias had caught Briley rereading the same passage from the same unfolded piece of paper, her smile dissipating in the presence of spies. Behind her back, Bertrand told Elias that he had never seen her so happy, nor so occasionally sad. Whenever they traveled west, Briley became uncharacteristically chatty—and then, on the way home, barely uttered a word, as closed a book as she ever was.
“Should we talk about your love lives?” Briley asked. “Bertrand?”
Bertrand said nothing.
“Elias? Anyone caught your eye? Someone’s friend of a friend? Someone’s sister, perhaps?”
Elias also said nothing, consumed by a surging panic. Surely, she would not dare say anything about Sorea, accidental though it was. Well, not exactly accidental, but he didn’t know. He didn’t know. (If he had known, would he have acted any differently, another voice asked?)
“God, I’m freezing.” Bertrand changed the subject, mercifully for everyone involved.
They were still drenched from their arduous walk back from the bank, and the few candles that warmed the mood of the great cabin provided it with little actual heat. The ship’s steam engine pumped hot air through the ship when they were skyborne—an absolute necessity for winter trips and higher altitudes—but they were docked, their engine was cold, and so was the ship’s crew.
“We really need an actual office.” Bertrand held his hand over the flame of a nearby candle.
Briley had determined they could not yet justify the cost of one, even if they could afford it, and Elias had agreed. They weren’t there yet. Another big contract or two, then maybe.
Before the topic could be broached, there came a heavy knock on the door.
Unsolicited visitors were an uncommon occurrence on The Sapphire Spirit, but they remained an open business, and this was—for now—what functioned as their office. Briley told the person to come in.
The door creaked open, the rain drummed louder, and a man hidden beneath the hood of his ashen cape stepped inside. “Lovely day,” he said, closing the door behind him before peeling back his hood. Islet bolted across the room, away from the stranger.
Elias instantly recognized the braids in his black hair, the interwoven tattoos twisting up his mostly covered neck, the silver piercings lining the cartilage of his ears. He nearly uttered his name but stopped himself. Secrecy had always been their arrangement, so what the hell was Jalander doing here?
Jalander likewise did not mention Elias’s name, acting as if they were perfect strangers. “Is this The Two Worlds Trading Company?” he asked. He pulled back his cape and reached into his coat pocket, revealing a rolled-up, rather damp piece of paper. “I saw your flyer.”
A quick aside: the flyers had been Bertrand’s idea, though it was Elias, their resident artist, who had drawn the illustration of an airship bursting through the clouds like a drover through cattle. Over top this picture—in big, bold letters—the flyer read, Fast, reliable, and affordable, The Two Worlds Trading Company brings the continent to your doorstep. Briley, however, had wondered if Bertrand’s choice of words was a tad too fanciful, suggesting a similar though simpler alternative: Fast, reliable, and affordable, The Two Worlds Trading Company delivers all across the continent. Their disagreement proved irreconcilable, and Elias could see it from both sides. In the end, they had printed two versions of the flyer.
“There’s an object of considerable value I must pick up in the United North,” Jalander said.
“Where in the United North?” Briley asked.
“The capital, Saint Albus,” he replied. “I don’t need anything shipped there, and the artifact isn’t particularly heavy, but I must receive and transport it in person.”
“You want to come with us?” Elias clarified, eyes widening.
“I do. I must. Perhaps you can acquire additional business while we’re in Saint Albus. I won’t be taking up much room, but I require passage there and back.” A rapier dangled from Jalander’s belt, one that Elias had not noticed before, perhaps because they had always met in the relative safety of his tucked-away home.
“If passage is all you’re after, surely you could find a better deal on a vessel already destined for the United North,” Elias pointed out. Briley shot him a glance, but he was right. The question had to be asked.
“I inquired,” Jalander explained. “No one is heading to Saint Albus until early spring, and my client values time over money. Your flyer said you were fast, reliable, and affordable.”
“We are all of those things,” Bertrand assured him.
They also had no business lined up for another two weeks. Accepting Jalander’s offer was an obvious decision, and like the Southlander said, if no other traders from Sailor’s Rise were heading there for a few months, perhaps they could strike a deal or two in town. Saint Albus was a small city, like all cities of the north, and it would be a cold journey on the eve of winter: all good reasons why another company might reject Jalander’s offer. It made sense why he had come to them, but only just barely, and Elias was still suspicious. Then again, Jalander was supposed to be the cautious one.
Elias could tell Briley was tallying the bill in her head. Saint Albus was a four-day journey, which meant eight days of travel and at least another in town. On the other hand, they wouldn’t need to hire nor feed additional crew members, as they did now for their trips to Azir. And Jalander was but an ordinary man, not a sultan. Well, not entirely ordinary, only one of them knew. Still, the price had to be, as their flyer suggested, affordable.
“Four hundred relics,” Briley said first, though Elias had been working his way toward a similar number.
“I’m afraid three hundred is all I have budgeted for this.” Jalander the negotiator: like the rapier at his hip, this was another side of the man Elias scarcely knew.
As for three hundred relics, it was not exactly a generous price, but it was also a strange job—and a hefty bill for one customer’s passage. Luckily for this one, he had come at a slow time. “If we can leave tomorrow, three hundred it is,” Briley said on their behalf.
Jalander bobbed his head from shoulder to shoulder as if pulled one way and then the other by some invisible hook caught in the arch of his eyebrow. “Tomorrow,” he eventually confirmed. “I’ll be here in the morning with payment. You can call me Jalander, by the way.”
The three business owners offered their names in turn, though Bertrand’s came with a follow-up: “One more question before you go. Just out of curiosity, the flyer you picked up, what does it say? I’m doing a little market research.”
Jalander stared at the sopping piece of paper still clutched in his hand, mildly amused as he unfolded it with the delicacy of a surgeon. “Fast, reliable, and affordable,” he began, “The Two Worlds…” He squinted. “Trading…” He shook his head. “That’s all I can make out, I’m afraid.” He showed them the rain damage. “The rest has been blurred into oblivion.”
Whose flyer text would grab your attention?
