TRAVERS RESTED COMFORTABLY in the center of his raft. He was surrounded on four sides by hulking men who trained rifles on the water, watching for ripples. “Calhoun. Mr. Houndstooth. Ladies.” Hero made a disgruntled sound, and Mr. Travers tipped his hat to them in particular with a cough. “Et alia. I look forward to hosting you on the Sturgess Queen—my finest boat. Only the best accommodations.”

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly—” Hero began, but Mr. Travers interrupted.

“It’s the least I can do in exchange for the immense services you’ll be providing to the government of this great nation,” he said with a thin smile. “I quite insist.”

Houndstooth was still for a moment, his eyes on the goons’ rifles. The Gate let out a ferocious squeal as the ranger pulled the lever to open it. It slid sideways, nesting neatly under the ranger’s post. The wake lapped at the hippos’ flanks, darkening the waxed leather of their harnesses.

“Well,” Houndstooth said to the rest of the hoppers. “I suppose it doesn’t change too much if we’re aboard the Sturgess Queen. Fewer fleas than the Inn, I’m sure.” His face was open, and spoke to a pleasantly surprising change in plans. His expression betrayed none of the risk he was being forced to swallow. None of the rage.

It took a full minute for the Gate to open. The five of them walked through abreast, Zahra trailing behind Stasia. As they passed below the ranger’s post, Hero flung the man’s hat high in the air. It spun like a discus, and the ranger leaned out to catch it. The moment Zahra’s tail had passed the threshold, the squeal began again, and the Gate closed behind them.

Behind Travers, the narrow passage of the Gate opened up into the waters of the Harriet. The humid haze of the day didn’t quite obscure the massive dam that dominated the horizon behind him, dwarfing the riverboats and pleasure barges that dotted the water. Here and there, a canoe-sized islet bumped up out of the surface of the Harriet. Houndstooth would have expected them to be covered with birds—but then, he supposed the ferals made this a dangerous place to be a bird.

Mr. Travers clasped his hands in front of his chest, staring at the crew with wine-black eyes. His slim, slick moustache twitched over his icy smile. “Welcome to the Harriet.”

* * *

Hero dropped their bag onto the floor of the presidential suite and took the room in. It was small as far as presidential suites went, but it was, according to Mr. Travers, the largest on the Sturgess Queen.