“I understand. Not a word,” I spit, rolling my eyes, though inside I’m getting worried. Swift’s business here is apparently so important that she practically had to run the second the ship docked. If it were an errand for Santa Elena, she wouldn’t have sworn me to secrecy. All she’s carrying is the sack of cash, her entire salary bound in one scrap of flimsy, well-worn cloth. Is she running some sort of smuggling job on the side, working for some Flotilla crime boss underneath the captain’s nose? Or maybe there’s a debt to some dangerous warlord, something where she’s in so deep that her entire salary is forfeit.

She pulls up at one of the rickety hovels, and I can see the tension building in her shoulders. “This is it. Just stand back, be cool, and let me do the talking for us.”

“Got it,” I tell her, wishing that she was wearing more than her pistol at her belt.

Swift raises a hand and knocks three times on the door. There’s a shriek and several thuds, followed by the pounding of feet. I shrink back just a bit, just in case. If this gets ugly, I guess I can try to run, but I go where Swift goes, and something tells me she’s making ready to stand her ground.

The rust-tinged door swings open, and I freeze mid-flinch. Standing there, beaming wide and spreading his arms, is a middle-aged man with a baby in a sling on his chest and a child clutching his ankle.

“Welcome home!” he says, beckoning us inside urgently.

23

23

Swift and I step through the door. We both have to duck. The tiny shack is sparsely lit—most of the light comes from the holes that the rust has eaten in the roof. It bakes like an oven in here, the metal reflecting like a hotbox. There are random strips of cloth nailed up everywhere in a feeble attempt to offset the effect, but I immediately feel the sunken weight of the humidity inside settle over me.

I’m still trying to process what’s happening as I watch the man hug Swift, who squeezes him back, careful not to disturb the baby on his chest. When she releases him, he regards me with a curious eye, but I remember Swift’s instructions and keep my questions to myself.

“Prisoner,” she explains as she bends down to greet the anklebiter still clutching the man’s leg.

“Ah, delightful. Hi, prisoner. I’m Saul,” he says sticking out his hand. His voice has the same easy cadence as hers, the same accent dragging at his syllables.

“This,” Swift says, deflating just a bit as she lets the words out, “is my dad.”

Oh.

Oh. It’s all very clear now. The secrecy, the salary—everything. I grasp his offered hand, still reeling, and give it the firmest shake I can manage.