4. Emerier

The chamber door opened sooner than Alistair expected.

Doyle stood there with one hand on the frame and irritation stamped on his face. He was the youngest of the Chant’s crew, shorter than Glenn, quicker to bristle, and still carried himself like someone guarding his place even when no one was reaching for it. Alistair had noticed enough in a single day to guess that the resonance chamber had often been Doyle’s work before his arrival, which explained part of the look he was getting now.

“We’re down,” Doyle said. “Move.”

Alistair followed him up without comment. He could have said he would not stay aboard long enough to become a real threat, but that would have been stupid.

When he stepped back onto the deck, the light struck him first. A warm yellow star hung over the island, softer than the red one above the Company breeding grounds. It lacked that harsh burn that made the skin prickle. The difference should not have mattered this much. The light over the Company had always seemed hostile, as if even the sky there was keeping them in place.

After that came the scale of the island.

From the deck of the Chant, with a clearer view past the voidport walls, the land opened wider than he expected. He still could not see the far edge, which meant more land than he had first assumed. The port itself looked simple — a few landing lanes, low warehouses, a control wall, and a gatepost — yet it had enough structure to show age and steady business.

The newly ascended went down the bridge first, all excitement and relief. Alistair followed later with Doyle and Miles a few steps ahead of him. Before the ship had opened the chamber, Glenn had told him the Chant would remain for the day before resuming its route. He could come and go if he wished, and he could sleep aboard one more night so long as he was back before last light. The offer had sounded casual, but Alistair knew better than to treat casual kindness as something small.

The port checkpoint was armed, but the Chant had already been logged when it landed, and Captain Harlan’s papers were apparently in order. The guards barely did more than glance at them before handing them a pass and waving them through the control gate. Beyond the wall, the port district broadened into a line of inns, eating houses, chandlers, patch-shops, and warehouses built close enough together to feed on the same traffic. Voices carried from one doorway to the next.

Alistair slowed a little, taking it in. He had been wrong to judge the island just because the landing zone had looked modest. The port was not the true town, but it was large enough on its own to make him understand why harbor isles attract settlers. Movement brought shards, and shards were reason enough for more people to come.

Miles seemed to notice where his attention had gone. “First proper port?”

Alistair glanced at him. “Yes.”

“This is just the port. The town’s inland,” he explained, jerking his head past the district.

Doyle had clearly been hoping to be rid of him, but Miles overruled that plan the moment they reached the first row of eateries. “He’s coming,” he said. “Captain took him on, and he still looks like a blown sail. Sit down, boy.”

“I’m fine,” Alistair said automatically.

Miles gave him a level look. “Then you can be fine with bread in your hand.”

Doyle snorted. “If you keep feeding strays, we’ll have a second crew by week’s end.”

“We’d improve our odds if half of them could pull their weight,” Miles said.

That shut Doyle up. He followed them inside anyway.

The place they chose was simple — thick tables, a broad counter darkened by years of spills, a few patched curtains near the back to keep glare off the casks. The woman behind the counter looked built to throw out drunks herself if needed. She took one look at Miles and said, “You missed the good stew.”

“We always do,” Miles answered. “Bread, ale, and whatever’s left that won’t poison us.”

“You’ll pay before I hear about your route.”

He grinned. “Vicious woman.”

Alistair sat when told, more because his legs welcomed it than because he wanted to be obedient. He had eaten on the ship, but that had only softened his hunger. Clonemancy, it turned out, weighed on the body. When the food came, the bread was soft enough to feel extravagant and the drink cold enough to make him pause after the first swallow. It was ale, though milder than he expected. He had never tasted anything quite like it.

Miles watched him with open amusement. “Slow down. No one’s taking it.”

Alistair forced himself to obey. “Thank you.”

“Thank the chamber. The crew’s happier when someone else handles the turning.”

Doyle leaned back on his bench. “Speak for yourself.”

“I am,” Miles said. “You complain less when you’re not in there.”

Doyle muttered something into his cup that neither of them bothered making him repeat.

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Alistair let them talk and listened more than he answered. Playing the tired, uncertain boy came easily when part of him truly felt that way. Between Miles’s willingness to explain and the noise from nearby tables, he gathered a great deal without seeming to ask for much. The island was called Emerier. It floated far out along a junction of quieter voidflow routes, which made it smaller than the major harbor powers but busy. It had two towns and five villages. The Port of Verevain handled most incoming traffic, while the real town of Verevain lay inland. Dorelle, the other town, was crop-focused and fed much of the island.

The ascension island also explained why the port felt emptier than it should. The Chant had been among the first charters out. Other ships had left after them carrying candidates from farther parts of Emerier and nearby islands that had rushed when word spread. The woman behind the counter — Eline, someone called her — said the last vessel had barely made the flow in time. No one wanted to miss an ascension window. On poorer routes, people sometimes waited years for another chance.

“That’s still better than some,” Miles said, tearing bread apart with worn fingers. “I knew a boy once who was near twenty before getting a class.”

A little later, a conversation from a nearby table caught Alistair’s full attention.

Three people in worn combat gear sat with their heads bent over cups and a rough scrap of chalk-marked board. Their clothes were patched, and their attention kept returning to the board.

“I’m telling you,” one of them said, tapping the marks with a blunt fingertip. “The nest isle’s still open. No guild banner, no outside contract, no formal ranking. The port office only posted a warning watch.”

“That means they don’t know what’s on it,” another replied. “Not that it’s safe.”

“Safe doesn’t pay.”

The third, a woman with clipped speech and a flat stare, took a drink before speaking. “First teams get first routes. If there are shard pockets near the outer routes, I want them before the bigger crews hear.”

Miles’s ears had caught the same conversation. “Nest isle?” he called over before he could stop himself.

The broad-shouldered hunter gave him a quick look. “New one drifted near the local course three days ago. The reports suggest a young nest. But nobody’s put a real claim on it yet.”

Eline set down a mug hard enough to cut through the noise. “You lot keep talking like that and every half-fed knife with boots is going to start dreaming of deep shards.”

“Let them dream,” said the broad one. “Dreaming’s free.”