The carrier talisman ignited with a sharp hiss of blue sulfur.
A streak of violet flame shot from Deacon Vane’s fingertips, carrying Sera Thorne’s itemized ransom scroll across the western sea. Within seconds, the magical spark vanished into the clouds toward the Ashen Sun high command.
“The invoice is away,” Deacon Vane announced, rubbing his palms together. “Ten thousand Sovereign Jade Cores, delivered directly to their grand council.”
Kaelen Vance did not open his eyes. He lay in his hammock beneath the rustling bamboo, his straw hat resting securely on the bridge of his nose.
“You phrased it politely, I trust?” Kaelen murmured.
“Extremely polite, Young Master,” Vane assured him. “I used the formal merchant script. I noted that while the Sovereign is deeply fond of imperial warships, twelve dreadnoughts take up excessive dock space and block the morning fishing skiffs.”
Polite billing is the secret to quiet living, Kaelen thought. If you threaten an enemy, they send soldiers. If you send them an invoice, they send lawyers and accountants, and accountants take three weeks to draft a reply.
“Sera,” Kaelen called out softly. “What is our daily margin from the island mines?”
