Errol stared at the gold coins in his hands. They’d each been given a stipend to spend at will in the marketplace before they departed for the Bridge, but Errol was tempted to forgo provisions and keep the surplus. Growing up in the Hubbard gambling dens, Errol had always been around money, but he’d never actually had money for himself. In his own hands. All his own.

Discretion finally won out over greed. He clenched his fists and shoved his hands into his pockets. No point in hoarding gold if he didn’t come back from the Bridge, and coming back from the Bridge meant surviving for more than his first few hours out there. For that, he’d need gear, as much as it pained him to part with the gold.

With this much money to spend, he could bypass the greasy, smoke-filled shacks down in Dockside. They were only ever stocked with ratty clothes or hastily repaired swords and pots and pans, all beaten into shape by the same disinterested hammer. Selinsgrove Market was too far away for a quick load up, and he didn’t fancy carrying spoilable food into the Bridge, but he vowed that he would visit the finest street stands in the market upon his return.

No, today’s purchase would be special: a fine harpoon crafted with alchemical perfection at Hellsbane Forge, the premier source of weapons and childhood dreams. His thoughts drifted as he trotted toward Hellsbane. If only ten-year old Errol could see him now, ascended through Dogfish and nearly out of Mako, strolling past the Stone Baths like he belonged among the rich folk, the Chancellor's gold in his pocket, ready to pick out his favorite weapon of all time.

It had been a hard few years before the Shark Clan had taken him, although Cedric had treated him well and tipped off the Clan about his talent for collecting information.

Errol ducked suddenly, his ampullae tingling as his sensor field identified a fast moving target to his left. He whipped out his dagger with his right hand while winding his scarf around his left forearm with one swift, sweeping motion. The lizardback scarf wasn’t much in the way of armor, but the triple layers of tough hide would deflect a glancing blow, which might be enough to let him survive.

Maeda snickered at him, lounging casually against the side of Munsey Fountain. “You’re learning, chum. Might actually make it onto the ship in one piece.”

“Indara accepted my terms,” Errol said, still not sheathing his dagger.

“Of course she did. You aimed too low.”

Errol shrugged. “I wasn’t all that interested in doing your dirty work for you.”

“You got some sort of suicide wish? Never met a Mako like you.”

“The Chancellor put me in charge of this expedition. If you’re still coming along, I need to know you’ll listen to my orders.”

“Or what? You’ll keelhaul me?”

Errol held his tongue. He really wanted to live long enough to buy that harpoon.

Maeda plucked the dagger from his hand before he’d even noticed her movement. “I’ll play along in front of the others. Don’t worry about feeling undermined out there, unless you risk getting us all killed. But don’t forget your place.”

“I won’t,” Errol said, keeping his tone light and friendly. He smiled at Maeda in his most disarming fashion, but inwardly he vowed that one day, their roles would be reversed.

She tapped the dagger on his forehead before handing back the little weapon hilt-first. “You’re a long way from Zay'tan or the Guild House. A few gold coins and your head’s full of big ideas.”

“Afraid I’ll waste my time with a visit to the cheese emporium, or Stratford Clothier?”

Maeda snorted. “Please. Every boy in this city dreams of a Hellsbane weapon.”

“They’ve earned their reputation,” Errol said, his voice squeaking slightly.

“A touch defensive!”

“Who knows what we’ll run into out there. I need better weapons.”

Maeda held out her hand, gesturing for the dagger. Errol ground his teeth but handed it over to her. She licked her lips, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and exhaled long and slow. Without tensing or winding up, she whirled and threw the blade, skewering a scrawny sewer rat nearly twenty paces away. “You need to get better at using the weapons you already have. Even a Hellsbane blade will be like a toy in your hands.”

“This may be my only chance,” Errol whined, but he cut himself off with a stern reminder that he needed to act like a captain now.

Even so, he trotted after Maeda when she went to retrieve the dagger. He tucked it into his waistband, and remembered to wrap his scarf back around his neck so he didn’t look quite as ridiculous with it wrapped around his arm.

“Survive the Bridge, and you’ll have plenty of opportunities to gear up. Waste all your money on a new weapon you can’t even use? Now that’s just stupid.”

“Why do you care?” Errol finally mumbled.

Maeda shrugged. “You’re right. I shouldn’t. But if we work together, we have a chance. It’s a small chance, but if this insane mission succeeds, then a member of Shark Clan will have the ear of the Chancellor. You don’t get to throw away that kind of prestige just because your half-developed brain goes crazy over a shiny bit of metal.”

He considered her words for a moment, weighing his options, and conceded the fight. “You’re right,” he grunted.

“Of course I’m right. If you were smart, what you should have said is, ‘What should I do instead?’ Then I could give you some direction.”

“You will anyway.”

“Course I will.” She cuffed his shoulder. “But one way you sound like a man, listening to wise counsel; the other way, you sound like a petulant child who’s still angry about his toy.”

The walked in silence back toward Hubbard. Halfway there, Errol opened his mouth to ask what he should do next—but instead, he said, “Where did you study before you came to Laurentum?”

“I trained with Isadora,” Maeda said at last. Her eyes grew hard. She didn’t volunteer any further details.

“I don’t want to be a Bull,” he confided as they turned down streets all too familiar to him. Each step seemed to drag him deeper into a past he never wanted to relive.

“Good. Settling is the first death; the grave follows on its heels.”

Maeda stopped abruptly in front of a ramshackle building, motioning for him to enter. Its front porch sagged so hard to the left that Errol felt himself leaning sideways to compensate for the tilt as he climbed the creaking stairs. Boards shifted under his feet, and he held his breath on the third step for fear that it was about to rot through and break under his weight, but they made it to the top without major incident.

“Inside, ask the shopkeeper for a thieves’ kit and a silver amulet of clarity. He’ll outfit you properly to survive whatever we face . . . out there.”

Too many ears around to say “the Bridge.” If one of the many listeners heard about their destination and relayed the news to a rival boss, then the questioners would trap them in town for so long they’d miss the boat—in the best case scenario where they were still alive after the questioners were done with them.

Errol pushed open the faded green door and stepped inside what surely must have been one of the most haphazard shops in all of existence. Jars lined the shelves, interspersed with an assortment of knives, clothes, and rat traps. Two barrels had tipped over, but nobody had bothered to clean up the contents. A rat perched on top of one pile, eating a moldy biscuit right below a rat trap, mocking its fate.

The shopkeeper wasn’t in sight, but Maeda brushed past the counter, stepping over and around obstacles and items on the floor. A soft squelch followed by a curse made Errol snicker, but he kept it quiet and followed in her wake, quick feet enabling him to avoid broken glass and a pool of rotting jam. Ahead, Maeda shook her foot and wiped it against a discarded cape, then shoved aside a curtain of beaded string.

The first thing Errol noticed when he followed her inside the next room was the massive axe pressed up against his throat, wielded by a man whose neck and shoulders looked like he’d borrowed them from an ox. The second thing he noticed was how utterly spotless the room was. The pristine display cases and well-crafted items hanging neatly in patterns and rows stood in dizzying contrast to the squalor outside, a look he now realized was carefully curated.

“He’s with me,” Maeda snapped, and the guard stepped back, waving Errol into the room impassively.

A slender, serpentine creature coiled on the stool behind the desk. “Welcome,” it said, in a voice so deep and rich that Errol almost tripped. He’d expected something reedy, sibilant—a high-pitched wheedle that matched his perception of the proprietor.

“Maeda vouches for you, so we will accept your coin, tainted though it is with the touch of the Chancellor.”

Errol frowned at Maeda, who shrugged as if to declare her innocence.

“We can smell it all over that filthy lucre,” the being continued. “No one had to tell us that she tracks its use. We will sever those strings.”

Errol took inventory of all the muscles he’d clenched when the big man had stopped him with the edge of his ax. Breathing in a practiced rhythm, he released his hold on each one until he felt calm and limber again. “I’d like to buy a thieves’ kit and a silver amulet of clarity.”

The snake—it wasn’t the right term, Errol knew, but he couldn’t disassociate the creature from its distant cousins—recoiled, hissing once in betrayal of its ancient roots. “Your business is your own, but we beg you to reconsider.”

Maeda stepped forward to lean over the counter. She thumbed the wooden surface with every few words to punctuate her point. “Don’t ask any questions. The need is great, and you’re not the target. This I swear to you.”

“Very well. Vytautas hears and obeys.”

Four more serpent-like beings slithered out from behind shelves Errol hadn’t seen when they had first entered the shop. They swayed in perfect unison, collecting items with invisible hands to bring to the desk. When the completed their task, they twined together, braiding bodies with the first creature until Errol couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.

Vytautas hovered above the desk now, spinning slowly on their side. “We accept the coin of our enemy. Do not make us regret our choice.”

Errol swallowed twice before he managed to wet his tongue enough to reply. “Thank you for your generosity. It will not be forgotten.”

He took the pack of tools that floated over to him, borne aloft by unseen limbs, bowing as he backed away with his new gear. The language felt too formal, but Vytautas seemed not to notice, and Maeda hadn’t laughed or even quirked an eyebrow.

She palmed something off the shelf on the way out, pocketing an item Errol couldn’t see when the guard glanced at him instead. He filed the information away, reminding himself to ask her about it later—either that, or try to use the knowledge as his final resort.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. They creaked back down the steps outside, but Errol didn’t pay it much mind. For the first time since he’d accepted the mission, the thought occurred to him that he might actually die. He couldn’t even buy basic tools without finding himself in over his head. What could he possibly hope to accomplish on the Bridge itself?