The harbor of Tidecrest Haven announced itself with a noise different from the one Simon had already gotten used to — not the disorderly shouts and informal dealings of the Isle, but a more orderly, almost bureaucratic murmur, punctuated by the clink of chains, curt orders, and the rhythmic sound of a stamp striking something wooden over and over.
A delegation of men in dark uniforms was lined up right at the entrance to the main dock, each with a thick register tucked under one arm, stopping incoming passengers one by one to note their name, origin, and reason for travel before letting them continue.
Simon felt his stomach tighten the moment he understood what was happening.
"Papers," Corin said, in a tone that betrayed a sudden, cold realization. She stopped halfway down the gangway, turning to him with an expression that was a mix of guilt and frustration at herself. "Shit. Shit, I completely forgot to think about that. Tidecrest Haven logs everything that comes in and goes out — it's one of the first rules Cajin imposed on the ports of the central continent, after the Treaty. You don't have anything, do you? No papers, no seal, no—"
"Absolutely nothing," Simon confirmed, his voice flat. "Where I'm from, ID is a plastic card with a terrible photo taken at some government office. I doubt it's worth anything here."
Corin ran a hand through her hair, her eyes darting quickly toward the line of officials, then to Simon, then back to the officials, as if desperately searching for an option that didn't exist.
It was Renn, who'd followed them off the ship with his own bag slung over his shoulder, who solved the situation with an ease that struck Simon as almost offensive in its simplicity.
"Leave it to me," he said, brushing past them both with two decisive steps toward the nearest official. They didn't hear it clearly, but they saw the gesture plainly enough — a small handshake that passed something metallic between them, two coins that vanished into a pocket with the ease of a motion performed a thousand times before. The official gave a barely perceptible nod, without even glancing at Simon, and waved a hand inviting them to proceed without further questions.
They cleared the checkpoint in under ten seconds.
"Two Shields," Renn said, coming back toward them with a satisfied look, "and no questions asked. Always works, with the smaller ports. In Cajin it'd be more complicated, but here the officials are paid little enough to have an excellent memory for whoever pays them better."
"Thanks," Simon said, sincerely.
"Oh, don't thank me yet," Renn said, a smile spreading slowly across his face. "Ten Shields, for the trouble."
Simon stared at him. "You just spent two Shields."
"And I risked my reputation with that official, on top of my morning, to get you two through without a hitch," Renn shot back, without losing the smile. "The service has a price, my friend. Always."
"You are a first-class cheapskate," Corin said, shaking her head, but already digging through her bag to pull out the coins.
"I know," Renn said, taking them with a small theatrical bow. "And I sleep just fine at night, anyway."
He walked off shortly after, bag over his shoulder, tossing a farewell nod with the same lightness with which he'd asked for the ten coins. "Until next time, you two," he said, already turning away. "I hope I only see you again if you're planning to give me more money. Otherwise, it's fine not to cross paths again either."
They found an inn a few blocks from the harbor, a low gray-stone building with a faded sign depicting an anchor. Walking there, Corin explained, in the tone of someone reciting a fact long taken for granted, that Cajin had set standard prices for lodging in every major port on the central continent — five Pennies a night, half a Shield, a figure meant to stay affordable for any traveler without emptying anyone's pockets.
Simon listened, then stopped dead halfway down the alley. "Wait," he said. "How many Pennies make an Aureus, exactly? Nobody's ever told me flat out."
"Five hundred," Corin said, as if it were obvious.
Simon stood still for a long moment, quickly doing the math in his head. "So," he said slowly, "when I told Yorin 'three of that thing' instead of two... I asked him for fifteen hundred Pennies instead of a thousand?"
Corin burst out laughing — a full, uncontrolled laugh that made her shoulders fold forward as she walked. "Exactly," she said, panting slightly. "Congratulations, you negotiated an absurd number blind, with no idea what you were even asking for. You got lucky Yorin was actually willing to pay it."
Simon ran a hand over his face, half amused and half stunned at himself. He thought back, with a fresh annoyance, to how little Renn had actually paid a moment ago: two Shields spent, ten asked back, a clean profit of eight Shields for a favor that had literally cost him nothing more than a handshake. "That bastard skinned us alive," he said, half laughing himself now. "Eight Shields' margin for two minutes of work."
"Welcome to the world of commerce," Corin said, still chuckling, as she pushed open the door of the inn.
The innkeeper was a stocky man with a stained apron, busy wiping a tankard with a grayish rag when they walked in. Corin stepped forward first, opening her mouth to ask about rooms — but the innkeeper, with an almost imperceptible but undeniable motion, moved his gaze past her, straight onto Simon, as if she hadn't said anything at all.
"What do you need?" he asked, addressed exclusively to Simon.
Corin said nothing, but Simon saw her stiffen slightly, her shoulders tensing in a small, almost imperceptible gesture, of someone who's already lived through that exact scene too many times to be surprised by it anymore, but not enough not to feel the weight of it.
"Two rooms," Simon said, without hesitation, holding the innkeeper's gaze with a firm tone. "And if you've got something to say to my friend, you can say it directly to her. She speaks perfectly well, I assure you."
The innkeeper blinked, caught off guard, then muttered something that could have been an apology or just a grunt, before turning to Corin to confirm the payment details with a suddenly more respectful attention.
Climbing the stairs a short while later, each with a heavy iron key in hand, Simon turned to her with a half smile.
"Since I defended you with such style down there," he said, "tonight you'll have a whole bed to yourself. No rug to share with anyone."
Corin looked at him, surprised for an instant, then shook her head with a smile that reached all the way to her eyes. "What a noble gesture," she said. "I might almost be moved."
"Don't get used to it," Simon said, opening the door to his own room. "Limited-time offer."
Night fell early over Tidecrest Haven, thick and silent after the day's chaos. Simon lay down on his own bed — a real bed, for the first time in days, with a mattress that, thin as it was, was still infinitely better than any rug — but sleep didn't come. He stayed staring up at the dark wooden ceiling, his mind chasing thoughts he no longer had the strength to stop: his mother, Giulia, the boss who'd probably already fired him, the entire world that had flipped upside down beneath his feet in less than a week.
After an hour of that useless brooding, he got up, slipped on his shoes, and left the room without making a sound, leaving Corin's door closed behind him. She was exhausted — he knew it, had watched her collapse onto her own bed practically still dressed the moment they'd walked in — and he didn't have the heart to wake her just because he couldn't sleep.
A walk, he told himself, going down the inn's silent staircase toward the dark street. Just a walk, to clear his head. What could possibly go wrong?