“We heard it was a good ship, and we were wondering if there are any openings for sailors.”

This brought a riotous round of laughter.

“And where be these sailors who be looking fer a job?” another voice bellowed from within the murky haze. “Certainly not two sand crabs like you.”

More laughter.

“So what you’re saying is you don’t know anything about the Emerald Storm. Is that right?” Royce returned in a cutting tone that quieted the room.

“The Storm is an imperial ship, lad,” the crooked man told them, “and it’s all pressed up. They’re only taking seasoned salts now—if there’s any room left at all.”

“If yer looking fer work, the fishery always needs gutters. That’s about as close to seafaring work as is likely for you two.”

Once more the room filled with boisterous laughter.

Hadrian looked at Royce, who shoved the door open and, with a scowl, stepped outside. “Thanks for the advice,” Hadrian told everyone before following his partner.

They sat on the Mackerel’s steps, staring at the line of ships across the street. Spires of wood draped with tethered cloth looked like ladies getting dressed for a ball. Hadrian wondered if that was why they always referred to ships as women.

“What now?” he asked softly.

Royce sat hunched with his chin on his hands. “Thinking,” was all he said.

Behind them the door scraped open, and the first thing Hadrian noticed was a wide-brimmed hat with one side pinned up by a lavish blue plume.

The face beneath the hat was familiar, and Royce recognized the man immediately. “Wyatt Deminthal.”

Wyatt hesitated as he locked eyes with Royce. He stood with one foot still inside. He did not look surprised to see them, but seemed to be merely questioning the wisdom of advancing, like a child who approached a dog that had unexpectedly growled. For a heartbeat no one said a word, and then Wyatt gritted his teeth and pulled the door shut behind him.

“I can get you on the Storm,” he said quickly.

Royce narrowed his eyes. “How?”

“I’m the helmsman. They’re short a cook and can always use another topman. She’s ready to sail as soon as a shipment from the palace arrives.”

“Why?”

Wyatt swallowed, and his hand absently drifted to his throat. “I know you saw me. You’re here to collect, but I don’t have the money I owe. Setting you up in Medford was nothing personal. We were starving, and Trumbul paid gold. I didn’t know they were going to arrest you for the king’s murder. I was just hiring you to steal the sword—that’s all. A hundred gold tenents is a lot of money. And honestly—well, I’ve never saved that much in my life and I doubt I ever will.”

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