You bring Yahs ashore like any rchant—cloak salt-stained, ledger tucked under one arm, smile practiced to the point of invisibility—and the Seafarers take him for coin and route rather than blood. The quay slls of tar and citrus peel, of fish guts washed thin by tide. He walks at your shoulder, easy in his steps, asking after dock fees and berths as if the sea were only ever a balance sheet.
Theron’s scribe keeps to the shadows, counting handshakes, noting who touches whose sleeve and how long they linger. The Hall’s witness sits quiet in the corner of the inn, cup untouched, listening to gossip the way a judge listens to breath.
It is exactly the sort of place a scion must learn to listen rather than speak.
At a table near the door, a broker laughs too loudly and tells a captain that charms are cheaper than crews these days. The captain snorts, fingers a bead at his throat as if it were a worry stone, and says nothing. Nearby, an old shipwright mutters that the groves have started charging “insurance,” and the word passes without argunt. Yahs hears it all. You see the lesson settle in him: rchants do not debate loyalty; they assu it can be purchased, or bound, or both.
In the lee of the quay, where rope coils and crates make their own alleys, you lay out a second story with Yahs and Mira. Yahs will travel as a southern trader, opening a route through the Dark Isles to Lord Jothere. The lure is simple and fattening—new markets, new captains, the promise of ships that could be pressed into service under contract.
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At the sa ti, you seed a louder rumor: there is no scion at all; Heyshem, brazen and hungry, is the one angling for rulership of clans, Hall, and markets alike. The lie is bait that cuts both ways. Those who know the truth will move to defend it. Those who fear disruption will marshal their networks in the na of comrce.
The plan draws and pries. Yahs’s rchant pretext lets you sail into cove and harbor under reasons no one questions; Heyshem’s bluster makes certain n worry and move. Brokers begin to count crews in corners. Captains tighten manifest seals. Old groves that once welcod rites close their doors with furtive hands. You watch for the signs of the two shadows that trail power here: the one that records, and the one that provokes. A clerk with ink-stained fingers notes patterns on a slate. Elsewhere, a quiet word causes a ship to change berth without explanation. The trap you set forces choices; action will show allegiance.
When Yahs is called to the Hall to et Jothere, you do not wait for ceremony. Your brothers—Reva and Bram—have been left as guards at the lord’s house, and their slates have kept you fed with the undercurrents: Jothere has been patient like a man setting snares in furrows. He has split his household into halves that do his work for him. One son tends the druidic rites that make artifacts; the other scatters those artifacts through trade. The ledgerings hint at a business that is both craft and cruelty, validation and distribution braided together.
At dusk you slip from the crowd. Theron holds front, Yahs keeps the rchant’s posture, and you climb the old servant stairs behind tapestries only those bred to the house know to use. The inner corridors sll of wax ward by bodies and of ink sharp enough to sting the nose. Ash dust clings where it should not, fine as flour. Doors ease open by habit as much as by wood; the household sleeps in a dozen practiced shifts
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