Once the ladder was secure, Walnut went up it hand over hand, with an easy grace that belied his size. George the Gut followed, a bit more awkwardly, and Marcus brought up the rear. The Rosnik had the low profile of a riverboat, with a single deck and all cabins and cargo stowed below. One lantern burned at the stern, and another pair near the bow, where the boat was tied against the pier. Marcus could see one musket-armed guard by the boat’s wheel, and several more by the bow, but as they’d guessed the majority of the Patriots were waiting on the pier itself, protecting against an attack from the landward side. Maurisk needs to show a bit more imagination.

“Something’s wrong.” Raesinia was shielding her eyes against the lights, looking toward the bow. “I don’t see anyone from Viera’s team.”

Marcus looked the other way. The lanterns had ruined his night vision, but he could just about make out dark shapes slipping over the rail, only a dozen yards from the wheel and the guard. The Patriot, equally blinded, didn’t show any sign he’d noticed.

“Andy’s here.” Marcus drew the pistol from his belt and checked the powder to make sure it was still dry. “Could they be having trouble getting the ladder up?”

“I’m worried they went too far around—fuck!”

A shape became visible on the bow rail, the head and shoulders of a boy of fifteen. His name was Peter, Marcus vaguely recalled, one of the refugees who’d eagerly volunteered for a chance to strike back against the Patriots and the seedies. But their boat had somehow missed its mark, and drifted too close to the pier—he was climbing up within a few yards of the pair of guards there. Even as Marcus watched, one of the Patriots turned and gawked at the boy, then yanked a pistol from his belt.

“Stop right there!” he said, loudly enough to carry all over the Rosnik.

The boy ought to have ducked back out of view. Instead he pulled himself upward, one hand fumbling over the rail. Marcus drew a breath to shout and distract the guard, but before he could the Patriot pulled the trigger. His pistol cracked, and Peter’s head snapped back as though someone had yanked hard on his hair. The boy’s hands gripped the rail for a moment, then relaxed, and he toppled backward and out of view. Someone screamed below.