Across the Long Sea by Sarah Remy Page A

carry trade goods. Look as you like, Liam, but keep your hands to yourself. I’ll not have you lose a hand to accidental thievery.”
    â€œYes, my lord.” Liam promised, subdued.
    S ELKIRK P ERCHED UPON a natural stack of rock. The peninsula jutted in crags and cliffs over the water. The first Lady Selkirk had ordered steps cut in the rock, an onerous and time-­consuming task; twelve strong men and women were lost to the stair, the rock made slippery by fog and sea spray. A more enterprising descendant had added thick rope, cables bolted into the stone for ease of climb, and later a system of lifts and pulleys for the transfer of dry goods.
    The wind whistled against the rocky shelf, and even Liam clutched at the guide ropes with both hands as he descended, carefully testing one wet step at a time.
    â€œLeastways the Downs have a proper path,” the boy complained, nose scrunched against sea spray, roses fluttering in his hair. “Smooth and slow-­like.” He considered the lift as it was winched past, open barrels of silver fish suspended midair, swaying. “Safer riding up and down in that , I think.”
    â€œI’ll stick to the stairs, thank you,” Mal said. “And so will you.”
    For the first time in a long while Mal’s poisoned lungs didn’t fail him. He was warm but not short of breath when they finally reached the shore. He took a deep, hungry breath, and was pleased and surprised by the comfort of salt and wet behind his ribs.
    Liam dropped to his knees on the beach, sifting handfuls of sand between his fingers.
    â€œFeels like sugar,” the boy decided, entranced. “Smells like fish.” He touched the tip of a sandy finger to his tongue, making a face. “Tastes like fish, too.”
    â€œMayhap you have it backwards,” Mal suggested, amused. “Keep an eye out for shell; Biaz pays a silver penny for white oyster.”
    Liam grunted, sharp gaze noting the tall, cold torches, then skimming the long pier and anchored ships.
    â€œOnly two left, my lord. I saw one go out after dawn. They used oars.”
    Mal said, “The water’s very deep very fast here, but the wind isn’t strong enough for use until farther out. A good oars crew is near as powerful as bluster.”
    Liam straightened, sand sticking to the knees of his trousers. He laughed and pointed. “I’d been wondering where he’d got to. Likes the fish, doesn’t he?”
    Mal caught a glimpse of ebony feathers among a throng of white gulls circling the pier. He hadn’t had time to miss the raven, and felt a surprising pang of guilt.
    â€œWell,” he said. “Best see he’s not gotten himself into any trouble.”
    â€œThat one, my lord?” Liam laughed. “He’s cannier than the lot of us put together.” He followed Mal across the beach, twice almost loosing his rose crown to the wind.
    T HE PIER GROANED and shivered beneath their step, tortured by ship and sea. The planks stank of tar; both pier and tall ship were regularly painted in the thick substance. More open barrels waited in groups of three for the lift: silver fish and clams and sea crawlers and oysters tossed together in a welter of fresh catch.
    â€œThe real coin is there,” Mal said, nodding down the pier at a pyramid of stacked square crates. “Spice, chai, and kahve. Spice and chai from the north, and kahve from the Black Coast. Wilhaiim pays dearly for all three, the merchants and islanders are rich, all.”
    Liam studied the crates. Blue and green sigils labeled their contents, dye faded after a long, hot voyage.
    â€œAvani’s an islander,” the boy mused. “And not rich.”
    â€œNo.” Mal frowned, watching as Jacob chased a fat gull away from a dropped, flopping fish. The raven pinned the fish between sharp claws and plunged his beak into the glassy, dead eye. “Although once her family might have been.