Skiver glanced up, and for once his grin faded. "Ah. About that. I heard from Vadim that an alchemist's workshop burned down in the night. Terrible thing, he said. But they're dangerous places, with all those chemicals and such. So Vadim said."

  Alaeron closed his eyes. His workshop. His father's workshop. Alaeron had grown up there, essentially—oh, they'd had a house, of course, but the laboratory had always felt like home, and now it was a smoking crater in the ground. "Did Vadim have it burned down? To, I don't know, teach me a lesson in respect?"

  Skiver shrugged. "I couldn't say for sure. He didn't tell me he'd done it, and it's not much of a lesson about respecting him if you don't know he's the one who burned it down. Could have been your other friend, I guess, the legbreaker who got sent around to collect your debts. Not sure if that's any better, though. I never asked, who do you owe? I know most of the enforcers working hereabouts, and that Kellid looked like somebody brought in special from out of town to make a point, and there are only a few fellas who go in for that kind of flashy display."

  "I'd rather keep my business to myself," Alaeron said stiffly.

  Skiver shrugged. "Suit yourself. Nobody ever lost anything by keeping a secret. You must owe a heap, though, if they imported that kind of talent to go after you. Probably ought to get on board before he comes looking for you again, hadn't we?" Skiver shouted at Jaya to come on and set off along the dock, dodging passing sailors and heaps of what Alaeron could only think of as "boat junk" with alacrity.

  Jaya fell into step beside Alaeron. "Have you done much sailing?"

  "On river barges," he said. "Seldom on seagoing vessels. Yourself?"

  "Oh, yes. I've been all over the Inner Sea region. My parents traveled a great deal. Always chasing the next opportunity—or running away from the last one, after it went wrong. My youth did not lack excitement."

  Alaeron would have been very much surprised to find out she was older than nineteen or twenty, and so she still had a bit of youth ahead of her yet. But then, he was a bit short of his thirtieth year himself, and sometimes thought he'd experienced enough for two reasonably full lifetimes, so who was he to say? "What sort of boat are we being saddled with, then?" He gestured to the vessel floating at the end of the pier where Skiver had stopped and started talking intently to a man who was so obviously a sailor he might as well have been made of tar and old rope.

  "Ship, not boat."

  "What's the difference?"

  "Basically? Ships are bigger. Call a ship a boat and you might offend the crew—just like if you called the crew themselves ‘boys' instead of ‘men.' This one isn't too exciting. Three-masted merchant ship, square-rigged on the mainmast and the foremast, lateen-rigged on the mizzenmast."

  "Hmm. Now I know how people feel when I start talking about retorts and alembics and crucibles, at the moment when their eyes glaze over."

  She laughed. "It's not the fastest ship, but it's fast enough, and roomy. I think Vadim just bought us passage on the first ship he could find running cargo to Absalom."

  "As long as we don't have to travel belowdecks with the crates and barrels," Alaeron said, just as Skiver beckoned them over.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The ship was called the Pride of Azlant—rather an overblown name for a trading vessel, Alaeron thought—and while they weren't to be stowed in the cargo hold, Alaeron was dismayed to learn he'd be sharing a tiny room with Skiver. There was a bed, of sorts—Alaeron had seen more comfortable sleeping arrangements in prisons—and a hammock hanging over it, so one of them would have the other swinging in a net above him all night. Alaeron couldn't decide which berth would be more unpleasant. He suspected it would be whichever one he happened to be using at the time.

  "Jaya gets her own room, of course," Skiver said. "With a good strong lock on the door."

  Alareon put his bag down in the corner of the room. "Do you think she's in danger from the crew?"

  Skiver shrugged. "Sailors aren't always the most savory characters, scholar, and there are about fifty of them on this ship, so the odds are, we've got a few of the nasty type. Someone might try to visit her at night, just to try their luck. Not that I'm worried about Jaya, but it would make things tense with the crew if she put a knife in the eye of a deckhand, don't you think?"

  "How long will we be on this oversized bath toy?" Alaeron sat on the edge of the bed, though he had to hunch forward so his head didn't brush the hammock above.

  "You'd have to ask the navigator. Except he's an important man, so don't bother him. We have to head around the western side of the Isle of Kortos, then swing eastward to dock at Absalom. A week, or perhaps nine days? From there we'll get another ship going to Osirion, dunno how long that will take, maybe a week or so if all goes well. I'm sure you can keep yourself out of trouble. Mixing up your medicines and what have you."

  "A man of learning is never bored, for his mind can always be engaged," Alaeron said.

  "Must be nice. I'd rather be engaged with dice or a deck of harrow cards. I'm going up on deck. Never been on an ocean voyage before. I feel like one of those great explorers—practically a Pathfinder, ain't I?" He dropped a wink—Skiver could have made prayers look dishonest, so his wink practically radiated disrepute. He ducked through the low doorway and away.

  The Inner Sea hardly counted as a real ocean—oh, it was wide, but nearly every bit of it was known and well traveled, nothing like the vast and trackless expanse of waters to the far west. They'd follow a standard shipping lane to the Isle of Kortos, and to the legendary great city of Absalom. (Alaeron had been there twice, once as a child and once as a teenager, and preferred Almas for reasons he assured himself weren't entirely patriotic and sentimental.) From there they'd head to the southern continent, which was, admittedly, approaching the edge of the known world as far as Alaeron was concerned, but Almas had something like diplomatic relations with Osirion, and they weren't exactly savages there, even if they were overly preoccupied with tombs and the dead and had an inordinate fondness for beetle-related artwork. Hardly undiscovered country. But for someone as steeped in city life as Skiver, a canoe trip across a lake would probably count as a major aquatic undertaking.

  Once they headed into the mountains, though, to the edge of the Mwangi Expanse—a place so wild there weren't even nations there, just scattered tribes who seemed perfectly content ruling themselves—well, then Skiver might have a point. That would be territory largely unexplored by any but brave adventurers and Pathfinders. (And all the people who lived in the area, of course, but walking around the place you'd been born wasn't the same as exploring; it only counted if you came from the outside, and took news of what you'd discovered back home.)

  Alaeron decided to go up on deck himself. He might never see Almas again—watching the city disappear into the distance would suit his melancholy mood, especially with that plume of smoke rising over it. He went up, finding a spot by the railing that seemed reasonably out of the way as sailors bustled past him doing inscrutable things with ropes and pulleys. After a moment Jaya appeared by his side, leaning forward with a mournful expression on her face. Alaeron was feeling fairly mournful himself. "You see that smoke?" he said.

  She nodded.

  "That was my father's workshop. Well, mine, really, but it started out as my father's." He shook his head. "I think Vadim had it burned down, as a sort of threat. Or comment. Or something."

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Was it worth a lot of money?"

  He frowned. He hadn't though of it in those terms. "A building on a bit of land near the center of Almas? I suppose, not that I'd sell it. But that's not the point, it's more ...it was my father's."

  Now she nodded. "Ah. And you loved him, then? You were close?"

  "Hah. I can see why you'd think that. But most of the time we couldn't stand each other." Some of the sailors jumped down to the dock and untied some ropes as thick as their own forearms, then climbed back on deck. The ship lurched, and then began slowly sliding away from the pier. "My father and I were very different people," Alaeron said. "He was ...methodical, even plodding, but he was very precise. I can be precise when I need to, but my father would never, oh, break into a burial tomb because he heard there was an interesting bit of parchment rolled up in a tube down there. He was smart, but he wasn't clever, or curious, except in a very narrow way."

  Jaya turned her back on the city—there was a touch of drama to the gesture. She leaned back with her elbows propped on the rail and squinted at Alaeron. "It must have been quite a trial for him, having you as a son."

  Alaeron gave a small smile. "Yes, I'm sure it was. I never appreciated that until it was too late to tell him so. But I owe him, you know. His discipline gave me the foundation I needed. I didn't want to study his formula books, or learn descriptive chemistry, or study stoichiometry. But it was the family business, and I was an apprentice, and so I learned to make alchemical lanterns and alchemical torches and industrial solvents, all the things we sold. Without learning all that, though, I wouldn't have learned to make ...more interesting things. Potions. Explosives. Rare extracts. My father gave me the bedrock I needed to build the castles of my own ambition."

  Alaeron glanced over to see if his turn of phrase had impressed her; if it had, she was doing a remarkably good job of keeping her admiration to herself. "But by the time I figured out what I owed him, he was gone. Still, I think maybe he knew. I hope so. While he was alive we argued constantly, about everything from philosophy to what we should eat for dinner—except in the workshop. There, we worked together like two gears in a greater machine, and for a long time after he died, when I'd be working alone, I'd sort of forget he was gone. I'd hold out my hand, you know, and say, ‘Number two pipette please,' and expect him to hand it over. Always a bit of a shock, until I got used to it. Part of why I set out to explore, and learn about forbidden things, and eventually ended up in Numeria, was to get away from all those memories. I've spent more time away from the workshop than in it these past few years, but I always knew it was there—it was home. And now it's ashes." He gestured at the thread of smoke, which was getting thinner with distance as the ship made its stately way out of the crowded harbor and toward the open sea. "No more home."

  Jaya put her hand on his arm. "You are a very sensitive man," she said.

  "Why, thank you, I—"

  "I am also sensitive and sentimental," she said. "About my brother. It is a shame, really, that we are so weak, you and I. Sentimental adventurers are more likely to die. It is better to have nothing to lose. Then you have no fear, no hesitation. If the time comes to run and leave everything behind, and start fresh somewhere else, they can run. But I cannot. A terrible weakness."

  "I'd ...never quite thought of it that way," Alaeron said.

  She shrugged. "We sentimental adventurers just have to be more dangerous in other ways."

  Skiver strolled by, leered at them in what he probably thought was a friendly way, then strolled toward the raised bit at the front of the ship where some sailors were congregating. "I don't think he has any sentiment," Alaeron said.

  "No," Jaya said, turning back to face the water. "We are fortunate he is on our side, then."

  They watched silently as Almas disappeared over the horizon, and their journey began.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  "No luck?" Skiver said the next morning, leaning in the doorway to their cabin and chewing on an apple.

  Alaeron frowned. He'd just come back downstairs after his third failed attempt to casually run into Jaya up on deck. "I can't imagine what you mean."

  Skiver snorted. "I've seen you go all doe-eyed and dewy-eyed and cow-eyed at Jaya, gazing after her longingly when she walks away—and not just staring at her rear end, either. Nice enough for those that like such as her, I reckon. But she's not my type."

  Alaeron stared at him. "Strong, smart, gorgeous, a smile that could set the world on fire—what is your type, if it's not her?"

  Skiver laughed. "I like something a little less feminine."

  "She carries a bow and arrow everywhere—"

  "Let me rephrase: I like something a lot less feminine. Entirely less feminine. Which is to say, not female."

  Alaeron blinked. "Oh. I didn't realize you, ah ...that is, that you were ..."

  Skiver crunched into the apple core and then spat a seed onto the floor at Alaeron's feet. "And why should you have? You're not my type either, scholar. So don't worry about having me as competition for her affection."

  I wasn't worried, Alaeron thought.

  "But I'd be careful around her if I was you," Skiver went on. "She's a beautiful woman, and she knows it, and lest you forget, she's the one who got you into this mess with her thieving ways."

  "Her brother was sick—" Alaeron began.

  Skiver rolled his eyes, then stepped out of the doorway. "I've seen her brother, and you haven't. Nothing sick about him. They were sick of having no gold, I'll believe that. Besides, I don't fault 'em for stealing. I like stealing. Truth is, I've found nothing livens up a long sea voyage more than stealing something."

  Alaeron paused before entering their room. "I think stealing something on a boat is technically piracy," he said. "It's the sort of thing that might get you thrown overboard."

  "Might do," Skiver agreed, "if I'd stolen something from the ship or the crew." He grinned and sauntered around Alaeron, toward the short set of stairs that led up to the central deck.

  "No," Alaeron murmured. "No, no, no." He went into the tiny cabin, where his pack rested, apparently unmoved, shoved into the space under his bunk. Alaeron gently slid the bag out, pulling by the one safe strap, then knelt beside the satchel and checked the various trick clasps and trapped buckles. Anyone who tried to open the bag without knowing how to disarm it first would get a face full of memory-erasing poison if he were lucky, and lose a fingertip if he weren't. At the very least anyone who breached the inner compartment without taking the proper precautions would be sprayed with a deep orange dye that wouldn't wash off, ever. Everything seemed to be in order, every trap poised and every potential countermeasure primed. It was the work of seconds for Alaeron to disconnect the proper threads and twist the appropriate buttons—all indistinguishable from the normal loose threads and buttons in the bag—and make the satchel safe for him to open, but only because he knew exactly what he was doing.

  He moved aside the padded vials, the thick ceramic jars with their lids sealed with wax, and finally uncovered the inner compartment, where six smaller bundles all waited, wrapped in cloth. After glancing around to make sure the door was firmly shut, he laid out the bundles and opened them. The silver teardrop of the time egg was there, and the coil of golden chain, and a red metal ring. When he touched the chain it slithered around his wrist like an amorous serpent, and he shook it off impatiently—that was the most active of the artifacts, lengthening and shortening at the least provocation, and trying to twine around any warm flesh that touched it. He hurried to open the other three bundles, but inside those ...there were rocks.

  Alaeron closed his eyes. He stood, and opened the door—

  And Skiver was standing there in the entryway, grinning and juggling three objects. They whirled past in a silvery circle, but Alaeron recognized them: a little dull gray disc, no bigger than a human ear but heavier than it should be. A shiny black gearwheel about a hand's width across. And a pearly white and gold device the size of a plum that could be spun like a child's top (albeit with more dramatic results).

  Alaeron gritted his teeth. Just moving some of those devices was dangerous, especially the top, though fortunately this looping juggling motion didn't have the same result that spinning it on its point did. "Those are mine," Alaeron said. "Give them back."

  "Sure," Skiver said, but didn't stop juggling. "I'm a reasonable man. Come on, though. Admit you're impressed I got into the bag."

  Anything to make him hand over the relics. "I am impressed." And he was, almost as much as he was enraged. "And surprised."

  "I am more than a simple cutthroat and cutpurse," Skiver said, winking. "I'm a complicated cutthroat and cutpurse." He took a step forward, still juggling, and Alaeron retreated into the cabin. Once Skiver was fully inside, he kicked the door shut, then stopped juggling, catching the relics as they fell and making them disappear—up sleeves, into hidden pockets, who knew?

  Alaeron glanced at his bag, which still yawned open on the floor. Quarters were too close for a bomb, but if he grabbed the golden chain—

  "No need to get rough," Skiver said mildly. "I said I'd give them back. But first, let me say—hell of a bunch of traps there. I've never seen better. Really tested my ingenuity. Vadim asked around and said he thought you were the real thing after all, but I had my doubts. Consider my doubts put to rest then. You know your business. Of course, I know mine better, but I'm older than you, it's only to be expected, I've been at it longer." He leaned against the door and crossed his arms. "And now you know I know my business. There's not a door I can't get past—barring those sealed up by magic, but you can often get around those, too, with a little thinking. You've got no idea how many fools put a bunch of magical wards and barriers on a door, but the door's just set in an ordinary wall of wood or stone, something you can get through with a sledgehammer and enough time. You and me are professionals, all right, is what I'm trying to say. It's good if we can respect each other, and trust one another to do whatever falls into our, what would you call it, area of expertise."

  "So your attempt to foster a sense of group cohesion involves stealing some of my most prized possessions?" Alaeron said.

  Skiver shrugged. "I had to make a point, didn't I? Besides, I was curious. To go to that much trouble to seal up a traveling pack, I thought you'd have gold or jewels or something in there. Not weird bits of metal and enamel. I'm sure they're all very interesting and technical and all that, but if you didn't make it so obvious they were valuable, nobody'd bother to steal them, they'd think they were just bits of tinkerer's junk." He took out the top and held it forward on his palm. Alaeron reached for it, but Skiver closed his fist and pulled it away. "Ah, ah, ah. Not yet, scholar." Skiver squatted down on his heels, his back leaning against the door. "Turns out sea voyages are boring. I've not seen a single sea monster, the captain doesn't let his crewmen gamble, and one mile of water looks much like another. So let's make an arrangement: Tell me a story, and I'll give you back your trinkets. One story, one trinket. Only true stories, mind." He tapped the side of his long nose. "I can smell a lie."