She scrambled across traffic to the dock and approached him from the south. He’d tipped his hat down to shield his eyes from the sun, and so didn’t see her until she drew even with him, saluted, and said, in mock-posh accent, “Good day.”

He muttered “Good afternoon,” then stopped. His hands slipped out of his pockets, and he swiveled around to Izza; she’d already taken a few skipping steps back, to keep out of arm’s reach.

“You came back,” he said.

“To warn you.”

“I’ve had one warning already today.”

“I heard.”

“You’re watching me.”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t know what to make of you. But I think we’re on the same side. Or, similar sides.”

“Ms. Pohala said the same on her visit this morning. Do you also want me to forswear my work? Return defeated to my homeland?” He pointed vaguely out into the ocean, even though his homeland was more north and east than south.

“I think you should keep from getting stuffed in a Penitent, if you can.”

“She went to the Watch.”

“Yes.”

“She calls me a thief, and says the Blue Lady is a lie born of fear and wishful thinking.”

She ignored the second part. “Theft is a Penitent offense,” she said. “You need to hide.”

He turned, and walked away.

“Hey!” She ran to catch up with him. “This is real. When the Watch comes for you, they’ll slam you in a statue until you break.”

“If they prove my guilt, which is unlikely. At best, they’ll hold me until my government protests. Greater men than I have written from a cell. Gertwulf composed his Virtuous Voyage while a debt-zombie, scribbling in the few minutes each morning before his contract took hold. Once the Iskari priesthood secures my release, I will leave the island. Meanwhile, I wait.”

“You think your priests will help you?”

“Troubadours have been convicted of worse than theft, without grand consequence. The Prelates of Iskar fight a long war. Indulgences are permitted for their soldiers.”

“You’re no soldier.”

“All poets are soldiers. We fight our wars across centuries.”

She didn’t understand, but didn’t ask. She felt other eyes on them, passing cabbies and dockworkers intrigued by the odd pair arguing on the street. No watchmen, yet. She grabbed Margot’s hand and pulled him along the docks. Walking, at least they presented a moving target. “You think,” she said, with a smile to a dirty man selling flowers from a basket, “that they’ll take you in a legal way, and hold you so people will know. That they won’t just stuff you in a Penitent and forget.”

“They wouldn’t.”

“They do. It happens all the time.”

“Ms. Pohala has no right—”

“She doesn’t need right if she has powerful friends,” she said. “Come on, smile a little. There’s people watching.”