A few minutes more, and Tunnel had had enough of waiting. He crammed himself into Birké’s shirt, though he could not button it and his bulk threatened to burst the seams of the shoulders. He went to work, and Dariel was glad he did. Where the rest struggled to carry one barrel between them, Tunnel somehow got his arms around two at a time, carrying one under each arm. With this help, the stacked rows on the boat’s main deck grew quickly. Dariel kept busy making sure they were properly secured. A few more minutes and they could—

“Dariel?” It was Skylene. Just one word, but the tone in which she spoke it told him everything. Instead of looking at her, he scanned the docks. He spotted the problem quickly.

An Ishtat guard stood at the end of their pier, watching them. Dariel turned to Skylene and, with a motion of his eyes, reminded her to stay hidden. By the time he had turned around again, the guard had started toward them.

“We’re going to have company,” Dariel said, just loud enough for those hefting the barrels to hear him. “Keep working. Except you, Tunnel—get out of sight.”

The Ishtat strode toward them now, eyes fixed. He wore the cloak of his order, bright white and trailing behind him as he walked. A thin sword hung at his side, and one gloved hand rested on its hilt. “Hey!” he called. “What are you doing? You think you can just drop barrels of league pitch to float away? Look!” He pointed toward the water on the other side of the pier. The barrel had floated free. “Get out there and fetch that!”

Dariel bowed his head and motioned his apology with his hands. He called the others and acted as if he would just pull out and pick up the floater. The man carried on toward them, however. As he got closer his steps slowed. And when he was near enough to make out individuals, he squinted, for a moment so perplexed he could manage nothing else. And then he said, “Who are you? You aren’t one of ours.”

Dariel smiled. “I?” He leaped from the deck to the pier and walked toward the Ishtat, holding an amiable expression. “Who am I?” He laughed and cocked his head in a manner that suggested he had a story to tell, one that would explain all this, one that would make them both laugh, even if the tale did not make the teller seem entirely free of guilt.

He tried to convey all this in the few steps it took him to reach the man, and it must have worked. Instead of drawing his sword or signaling an alarm, the guard had his chin raised and his hands planted on his hips. “Yes. Who are you, and what do you—”