Litany of Winter

Late-August heat sat badly on Westhold.

The quay smelled of coal smoke, wet rope, fish, and hot iron. Men moved cargo under a white sky while gulls fought over something dead between the pilings. Severin had been standing beside four field cases for less than twenty minutes and already regretted the coat.

Eight months earlier he had been in a winter-cold room in the Order’s healing wing, looking down at Matthias Kern and the same Salt mark, 🜔, that he had first seen in Blackhaven. Since then the Order had sent him on smaller work that ended with reports instead of corpses, enough of it that nobody checked whether he knew how to pack anymore.

He had turned twenty-three in January, and that still felt stranger than it should have.

Hans nudged one of Severin’s cases with the side of his boot.

”Got everything?”

”Yeah.”

”You sure about that? Travel papers and coin?”

”Yeah.”

Hans kept looking at him.

Severin sighed. ”You really don’t trust me, do you? I’ve got my sword, coat, field kit, papers, money, and enough fucking spare clothes for a month.”

Hans smiled. ”Good.”

The case stayed shut. He left the straps alone and did not ask about Severin’s sword or check his travel papers. Hans accepted the answer and turned back toward the water.

It almost annoyed him that he noticed the difference at all.

Rafael stood a few yards away with one boot on a low bollard, reading the same folded mission paper for what looked like the third time. His right hand stayed gloved. He followed the page with his left eye.

”You planning to find a different assignment in there?” Severin asked.

Rafael lowered the paper. ”I was hoping the island might have moved closer.”

The folded sheet held the same spare briefing Severin had already read twice: Grayhook, a lifesaving refuge serving dangerous waters, and reports of people surviving injuries that should have killed them. The Crown had quietly asked for specialists on the strength of that. The paper gave Severin nothing more about what they were actually sailing toward.

”You’re Dorvak. That explains why you hate paperwork.”

”What can I say? We only like it when it makes someone else poorer.”

”That’s what I thought. Fucking spoiled brat.”

Armin Brandt laughed from beside the cases.

Severin had met him at Kronvaal before they left for Westhold and had already decided he liked him more than was sensible. Armin was thirty, lean but solid, built more by work than fighting.

He had the practical habit of touching whatever he was discussing. When he spoke about equipment, his hand landed on a latch. When he spoke about a route, his finger found the map. His blind left eye was uncovered. The mark lay instead beneath the glove on his left hand.

He had spent the last few minutes checking the leather straps around a narrow instrument box somebody else had already checked.

”They warned me Montoro would be difficult,” Armin said.

Rafael folded the paper. ”Who told you that?”

”Everyone.”

”Perfect. I was worried my reputation was fading.”

Warden Leo Benitez looked up from his notebook.

”Brandt.”

Armin took his hand off the instrument case. ”Yes?”

”This medical case is marked three on the loading sheet. Why did you put it beside four?”

”Sorry. It was temporary.”

Leo checked the cases against his notebook.

Severin caught Rafael’s left eye and saw one corner of his mouth lift. Rafael enjoyed making people work for the point; Leo expected information in usable form the first time.

A glove covered the mark on Leo’s left hand, while the blind eye on the same side remained uncovered.

A whistle sounded farther down the quay, and Hans straightened.

A small Crown boat eased toward the steps, its crew already preparing a line. Aethermere’s blue-and-gold flag snapped above the stern, the crowned hammer and wheat sheaf bright against Westhold’s darker harbor.

”Is that yours?” Severin asked.

”Unless your king declared war on the Empire since breakfast, yeah.”

Severin laughed. ”Would he even tell us?”

Hans shook his head. ”Probably not.”

The boat came in neatly. One sailor stepped ashore with the forward line before the hull had finished settling against the quay. Hans picked up his bag.

For a moment Severin expected something else, a warning perhaps, or one last piece of advice. Hans had been there from Blackhaven onward. He had brought Severin to Kronvaal, watched him become a Pilgrim, and taken him on his first real job after Gravewatch.

Now he was heading southwest across the Concord Sea toward Solmara on a solo Order assignment.

Hans adjusted the strap over his shoulder. ”Try not to get clever while I’m gone.”

Severin frowned. ”You’ve known me long enough. That’s your advice?”

”Yeah. It’s good advice. For you.”

Severin smiled despite himself. ”Fine. Try not to piss off the Solmarans.”

”I’ll put that on my list.”

Hans offered his hand, and Severin shook it.

No speech followed. Hans stepped aboard, spoke briefly to the boat’s master, and did not look toward Leo before the vessel pushed away.

The boat backed off the quay, and Severin watched until Hans became another dark coat among sailors and stacked gear.

”Your babysitter has left,” Rafael said.

”Careful. I know where you sleep.”

”So does half of Kronvaal. Yet here I remain.”

Armin glanced between them. ”Eternal give me strength. This is going to be a long crossing.”

A deeper whistle rolled across the harbor before Severin could answer, and the cutter came around the end of the quay under steam.

The Vigilant Gale was smaller than Severin had imagined when he heard Crown cutter, but she looked built for unpleasant water. A single funnel rose from the low working deck, sending a dark smear into the bright air. Her fore-and-aft auxiliary sails were furled tight, and almost nothing aboard seemed present merely to look impressive.

The man on the bridge raised his voice only when he needed to.

At one order, two sailors moved aft. Another had a line ready before the cutter came alongside. The screw churned once in reverse, water folding white against the stern, and the hull settled toward the quay with barely enough force to complain against the fenders.

Only then did the man leave the bridge.

The briefing at the temple had given Severin the name Captain Frank Cooper. In person, he looked like somebody had issued a dockworker a blue officer’s coat with gold trim and failed to convince him to stop being one. He was compact and broad through the shoulders, with a weathered face and graying dark-blond hair, but Severin noticed the rope-scarred hands before anything else.

Frank came down the gangway while his crew worked around him.

”Benitez?”

Leo stepped forward. ”Yes.”

Frank held out a folded packet with a broken Crown seal. ”Captain Frank Cooper. My orders are to take your classified party to Grayhook and cooperate with the investigation.”

”That matches my instructions.”

”Good. Just so we’re clear, the ship and crew are mine.”

”Understood. I command the investigation and my people.”

Frank nodded once. ”Perfect. Sounds like we’ll manage.”

Neither man bothered with the sort of pause Severin had seen from officers who cared more about title than work, and Severin liked Frank immediately for it.

Loading began, and the cutter’s sailors moved faster than the Order party because they knew exactly where every case could and couldn’t go on their deck. Severin carried the second equipment case up the gangway and set it in its assigned place.

”Not there, mate. Need that passage clear.”

”Where?”

The sailor jerked his chin toward the bulkhead. ”Beside the strapped crate.”

Severin moved it and had barely straightened when Leo came aboard.

”Where is case two?” Leo asked.

Severin pointed. ”There.”

Leo checked the number. ”Why is it there?”

”Because it was in their way. What was I supposed to do, leave it there?”

”No. I need to know when equipment moves from the loading sheet.”

”I get that, but the sailor needed the passage clear.”

Leo looked from Severin to the case, but the sailor had already gone back to the quay.

”It’s twelve fucking feet away.”

”And I still had to ask where it went.” Leo tapped the edge of his notebook. ”Next time, move it if you need to. Then tell me.”

Severin looked at the case. ”Fuck me. All right.”

Leo nodded and continued toward Armin.

Frank glanced over as Leo walked away.

”You worked docks?” he asked.

”Not quite. Freight yards in Blackhaven.”

”That explains why you moved when told.”

Severin looked at him. ”Was there even another option?”

”You’d be surprised.”

Frank turned away before Severin could decide whether that had been praise.

The last of the gear came aboard, Rafael following it up the gangway with considerably more care than he would ever admit to.

Frank returned from the bridge carrying a sheet folded twice.

”Southpoint sent a weather update before we left,” he said to Leo. ”Wind’s building farther west. Leave now, we’ll have a rough crossing. Stay here, we’ll likely lose the weather window.”

”How long?”

”Could be tomorrow afternoon. Could be longer if it sits on us.”

”And if we leave now?”

”If I thought she couldn’t make it, I wouldn’t be offering it.”

Leo studied the harbor mouth, and Severin followed his gaze. Beyond the breakwater, the water was darker, white breaking across it where the sheltered harbor barely moved.

”They’re already waiting for us on Grayhook,” Leo said.

Frank’s expression did not change. ”That is not a reason to sink my cutter.”

”No. But you said she can make the crossing.”

”She can.”

”Then we sail,” Leo said.

Frank turned toward the bridge. ”Cast off.”

The deck changed at once as lines came in and orders passed cleanly from one sailor to the next. Severin stayed where he had been told, beside the bulkhead and out of the working passage, while Westhold began to move away from them.

The harbor opened behind the stern as Rafael came to stand nearby.

”I don’t much like sailing, and now we’ve got shit weather. How bad do you think it’ll get?” Severin asked.

Rafael watched the water ahead with his good eye. ”I was educated for diplomacy. I know when not to answer a question.”

”Fuck. That bad?”

”I dislike that you’re starting to understand me.”

The cutter passed the outer breakwater, and for a few seconds nothing happened. Then the first swell hit.

The bow lifted beneath Severin’s boots, hung there just long enough to make his stomach question the arrangement, and dropped hard into the next swell. Spray struck the forward deck. Frank called an order from the bridge, and the sailors nearest the bow moved at once.

Another wave hit harder, and Severin grabbed the rail before pride could object.

Eight months of field work had taught Severin to manage without Hans beside him.

The open sea had its own fucking opinion.