Locksmith “accidents” were infamous. Everyone knew of the sneak thief who had bowsed himself silly on brown ale, boasted of breaking a Locksmith lock, and been found the next day with his skull cloven by the gilded arrow of a fallen weathercock. Then there was the story of the Roaring Bladdiman Brothers, two rakes who had kicked in a Locksmith’s door to have a conversation with his pretty daughter. The following night at their favorite tavern a stack of barrels had collapsed onto them, rolling them flat like pastry beneath a pin.

“You know what, my dubbers,” said the mackerel-cheeked man, “I think we’d best try to swing him to shore with a one-two-three.”

“Yeah, and maybe fetch the good cull a nope on the costard and make him easy,” murmured the pipe smoker. “Get the nizey to bird us the brittles first.”

Caveat blinked. He knew every dictionary better than his parents’ faces, but this was thieves’ cant, and he could not tell whether the smiling men on the shore were praising his cravat or plotting to cut his throat.

“If you tumble in the bubble while we’re swinging you to shore, we can haul you out, sir,” shouted the tallest man. “But first you’d best throw us anything you wouldn’t want lost in the dunk.”

“No. Need I will be. Fine in fact I was just. Waiting here for a friend.” Caveat’s fingertips performed a quick patrol of his pockets, as if he thought the watchers could pluck purses with a glance.

“Right now the best friends you got in the world is those four ropes,” said the mackerel-cheeked man, “and wise men don’t wear out their friends’ patience. Else the ropes might wonder why they’re bothering with a man who can’t look to his own good, and they’ll break and give you to the Slye to buss.” There was no mistaking the threat in his voice.

If, as Caveat suspected, these were Locksmith Thief Takers, he had little doubt that they would dare to bring an “accident” upon a Stationer guildsman. He thought of icy water creeping into his nose and mouth as he fought the current. He imagined his wig soaked and bedraggled on a shoreside, a tug-of-war toy for gulls.

“Hoi!”

Caveat turned his head and gave a faint twitter of relief as he saw a little rowing boat approaching. A young man with a crooked nose lowered his sculls and stared at the suspended Stationer.

“You all right, mister? You need a lift to shore?”

“Yes! Oh yes! The, ah. Far shore.”