"The facts remain, Uther." The Brucolac absently picked splinters of wood from the guardrail and let them drift down into the dark. "The fact remains that you let me know. And you know the other riding leaders won’t trust me if I tell them. You’ve given me something I have to carry alone. And I think that’s because you know it’s a stupid, dangerous plan, and you don’t know what to do with that knowledge, and you wanted an ally."

Doul smiled. "Are you so arrogant?" he said lightly. "Are you that sure of yourself, that you can turn any conversation, any miscommunication, round?"

"Remember the razor golems?" said the Brucolac suddenly, and Uther Doul fell silent. "The steamwind plain?" the Brucolac continued. "Remember that place? The things we saw? This city owes us, Uther. We were the ones who saved it, whether they’ll admit it, whether they know it or not. Where were the damn Lovers then? That was you… and me."

The call of gulls. The sound of wind between the boats, the creaking of the haunted quarter.

"I learnt things then, Uther." The Brucolac spoke quietly. "I learnt how to read you. I know you."

"Godsdammit!" Uther Doul faced him. "How dare you play old soldiers with me? I am not on your side, Brucolac! I do not agree with you! Can you understand that? We have history, it’s true, and Khyriad knows I’ll not willingly turn on you, Deadman, but… that is all. I’m a lieutenant, and you were never my captain. I came here tonight as you asked, out of courtesy to you. Nothing more."

The Brucolac held his hand to his mouth and eyed Doul. His long tongue flickered over his fingers. When he lowered his hand, he looked sad.

"The Scar does not exist," he said. There was silence.

"The Scar does not exist," he repeated, "and if by some chance the astrolonomers are wrong, and it does, then we’ll not find it. And if by some fucking miracle we do find it, then you know-you, Uther, of all people know-that it’ll mean our deaths."

He pointed briefly at the sword scabbarded on Doul’s left side. He moved his finger, indicating his companion’s right sleeve, ridged with branching wires like veins.

"You know that, Uther," the Brucolac said. "You know the forces that would spill from something like that. You know we couldn’t possibly face them. You know that better than anyone, whatever those fools think they’ve learnt from you. It would mean the end of us all."

Uther Doul looked down at his sword.

"Not our deaths," he said, and smiled unexpectedly and beautifully. "Nothing so straightforward."

The Brucolac shook his head.