The Percepliquis dock was a massive enterprise. This busiest point of entry flooded the city with all manner of luxuries imported from every corner of the empire, brought up by long barges from the seaport at Vernes. The boardwalk was a rush of stevedores rolling carts and tossing sacks. Men shouted vulgarities, and huge crane booms swung nets of wooden crates overhead. At the northern end was the modest wooden ferry, whose only function was transporting passengers across the river. The West Bernum, at that point, was wide and lazy, lined with cattails and rushes. Only a few centuries ago, that section of the Bernum had been known as the Urum River, with the Bern being its sister-fork a few miles farther east. Over the centuries, the Bern and Urum of old had blurred into one, and few had noticed or cared. Now the pair of noble waterways—each of which had individually contributed so much to history—were reduced to the combined title of East and West Bernum as if the two branches needed to be joined to amount to anything. This was such a sad development in her mind that Farilane often brought it up to remind her companions of the world’s loss. But when she did, people assumed the princess was joking, and that she was also an awful comedian.

The ferry was a curious thing, for there had once been a bridge over the river. Constructed in the age of Emperor Nyphron, the stone bridge had replaced the ancient Havilyn ferry dock. For reasons unknown, the bridge had been torn down long before Farilane was born, and the ferry returned, although under new name and management.

Farilane and Kile boarded the ferry—a large, flat, diamond-shaped raft that hauled people, livestock, and wagons to the far bank. Several passengers looked at them. Despite Farilane’s telltale hair refusing to stay inside her hood, no one cared. On the ferry, she wasn’t the only blonde. Farilane counted five. Those other golden-haired travelers also displayed teardrop ears and the high cheekbones of pure Instarya elves. These made a point of keeping to themselves, remaining in their wagons, staring at the water, pretending they were alone on the voyage.

As the ferry departed, Farilane and Kile settled against the northern rail to watch the water surge beneath them. That was when she spotted him. There was no mistaking that dirty face and oily hair. Sheldon Faust approached, clutching a bulging satchel to his stomach.

“Good morning,” he said, a bit out of breath. “I almost missed the ferry. That would have been a disaster.”

“Why is that?” she asked, a bit surprised at his familiarity. The last time they met, Sheldon was terrified of her.

“My master would not have been pleased. He told me you’d be here and not to miss the boat.”

“Proust told you I would be here?”