“So you think getting us on the Emerald Storm is worth a hundred gold?”

Wyatt licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “I don’t know … is it?”

Royce and Hadrian crossed the busy street, dodging carts, and stepped onto weathered decking suspended by ropes. The boards bobbed and weaved beneath their feet. The two were dressed in loose-fitting duck-trousers, oversized linen shirts, tarpaulin hats with a bit of ribbon, and neckerchiefs tied in some arcane way that Wyatt had fussed with for some time to get right. They both carried large, heavy cloth seabags, in which they stowed their old clothes and Hadrian hid his three swords. Being unarmed left him feeling off balance and naked.

They snaked through the crowded dock, following Wyatt’s directions to the end of the pier. The Emerald Storm was a smart-looking, freshly painted ship, with three masts, four decks, and the figurehead of a golden winged woman ornamenting the bow. Its sails were furled, and green pennants flew from each mast. A small army of men hoisted bags of flour and barrels of salted pork onto the deck, where the crew stowed the supplies. Shouts came from what appeared to be an officer, who directed the work, and another man, who enforced the orders with a stout rattan cane. Two imperial soldiers guarded the ramp.

“Do you have business here?” one asked at their approach.

“Yeah,” Hadrian replied with an innocent, hopeful tone. “We’re looking for work. Heard this ship was short on hands. We were told to speak with Mr. Temple.”

“What’s this here?” asked a short, heavyset man with threadbare clothes, bushy eyebrows, and a gruff voice worn to gravel from years of yelling in the salt air. “I’m Temple.”

“Word is you’re looking to put on a cook,” Hadrian said pleasantly.

“We are.”

“Well then, this is your lucky day.”

“Ah-huh.” Temple nodded with a sour look.

“And my friend here is an able—ah—topman.”

“Oh, he is, is he?” Temple eyed Royce. “We have openings, but only for experienced sailors. Normally, I’d be happy to take on green men, but we can’t afford any more landlubbers on this trip.”

“But we are sailors—served on the Endeavor.”

“Are you, now?” the ship’s master asked skeptically. “Let me see yer hands.”

The master examined Hadrian’s palms, looking over the various calluses and rough places while grunting occasionally. “You must have spent most of your time in the galley. You’ve not done any serious rope work.” He examined Royce’s hands and raised an eyebrow at him. “Have you ever been on a ship before? It’s certain you’ve never handled a sheet or a capstan.”

“Royce here is a—you know—” Hadrian pointed up at the ship’s rigging. “The guy who goes up there.”

The master shook his head and laughed. “If you two are seamen, then I’m the Prince of Percepliquis!”