The Black Ballad made port just before evening.

  Merren stood at the prow and looked at Eldmere's harbour with the expression of a man who had expected bad news and was discovering that bad news had brought friends.

  Theron was on the docks.

  Of course he was.

  Merren kept his face pleasant and unhurried — the face of a travelling bard returning from an uneventful voyage with nothing of interest aboard. Beside him, Ink sat very still, watching the docks with the intensity of a dog who had decided that whatever she was looking for was definitely, certainly, absolutely going to appear at any moment.

  It didn't appear.

  Merren watched her watching the docks and said nothing. He already knew what she was looking for. It wasn't there. It wasn't going to be there.

  He'd deal with that later.

  For now: Theron.

  The Inquisitor stood at the end of the pier with his hands clasped behind his back, watching The Black Ballad dock with the mild expression of a man who had nowhere else to be and all the patience in the world. He had the unhurried look of someone who collected information the way other men collected debts — methodically, without malice, fully intending to call them in.

  Merren descended the gangplank at an easy pace. Ink followed, still watching the harbour.

  "You'll be Theron," Merren said brightly, as though confirming a dinner reservation. "Inquisitor. Collector of uncomfortable truths. I've heard of you. Or about you. One of the two. Possibly both. 'Of' suggests reputation. 'About' suggests whispering. You inspire a healthy amount of each, which is impressive. Very few men manage the balance." He tipped his head slightly. "Should I bow, or do you prefer trembling?"

  Theron's eyes moved briefly to Ink, then back. "You came in on The Black Ballad."

  "I was on The Black Ballad," Merren said, with the careful precision of a man correcting a legal document. "Passenger. Dreadful vessel, frankly. The captain charged me three silvers for a hammock that smelled of something I've chosen not to identify. I don't recommend it. Any of it. The sea in general, that ship specifically."

  Theron regarded him pleasantly. "And you are?"

  "Merren Thorn. Bard." He produced this information like a man with nothing to hide, which was exactly what a man with everything to hide would do. "Terrible time to be travelling, as I keep telling people. Nobody listens."

  "Where from?"

  "Most recently? Wherever the work is." He smiled. "Bard's business."

  Theron's eyes moved to Ink again. "Your dog."

  "Picked her up on the road," Merren said without hesitation. "Stray. Friendly enough. Follows me everywhere, which is flattering until you realise she'd follow anyone who fed her." He looked down at Ink with the mild affection of a man describing an animal he'd owned for years rather than weeks. "Haven't named her yet. Been meaning to."

  Theron said nothing.

  Ink, for her part, was staring at the city with the focused grief of a dog who had not been consulted about any of this.

  "Anyway, lovely port," Merren observed. Then, pleasantly, "Well. I have a prior appointment with a drink and considerably more interesting company than this. Good meeting you, Inquisitor. I hope to never have the pleasure again."

  He tipped his hat and walked away before Theron could decide whether the conversation was finished.

  ***

  Ink found them two hours later, by which time Merren had led Theron on a sufficiently scenic tour of Eldmere's less interesting streets — the kind where nobles didn’t visit, where things happened constantly and none of it was his fault.

  The galley of The Black Ballad held the not full complement of stowaways. They were sitting around the table looking like something the tide had left behind. A month of occupation had passed while he was gone. Apparently this was what it did to people.

  His eyes were drawn immediately to Prattle on a crate in the corner, feathers raised, radiating grievance. The jackdaw saw him and drew himself up to his full height.

  "I," Prattle announced, "am never leaving this ship again."

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Neither do I want you to, Mate. Cook get these people some food," Merren said.

  "Can't, Cap'n." The cook didn't look up. "Not yet. Too much too soon'll make 'em worse."

  Pip was on the floor between Kith and Ink, wrapped in his good court coat— the green velvet one — with the slowly murderous cravat tucked around her neck, which was, he decided, the best use the thing had ever been put to. The hyena and dog pressed against her on either side, sharing warmth.

  Dain was gaunt. He'd been beaten recently — fading bruise along his jaw, moving carefully, like his ribs were keeping score. His lute was slung on his back. It was the way musicians carried instruments they weren't playing — close, protective, like something they weren't sure they deserved anymore.

  Cocky said nothing. Didn’t even look at Merren. Kith, however, looked at Merren with the expression of someone who had been waiting a long time to hand a problem to someone else.

  "Took your time," she said.

  A silence settled. The kind that had weight to it.

  Ink was watching the door. Dogs did that sometimes — stared hard enough that the world might feel guilty and produce the thing they expected to materialise.

  "Where's Seren?" he asked.

  "Lost her," Kith said. "Courtesy of the Inquisitor."

  "Bugger."

  He looked at Dain. "Get her to my cabin.” Then at Pip’s body guards “Ink and Kith, keep her warm”

  ***

  Merren entered the galley looking rather smug with a bucket that was vigorously sloshing. Water spilled as eel bodies created a storm in the bucket.

  "Oh good, you're all here." He said as if he was surprised to see them in the galley and set the bucket down on the table. All five eels popped their heads up and regarded the room. The room regarded the eels. "Right then. Let's talk about how we're going to take Eldmere away from the people currently ruining it."

  Silence.

  Cocky stared at the bucket. "What's the point."

  "Cocky—" Dain started.

  "No." Cocky's voice was flat. "Jorvan has Eldmere. Helmut has the throne back. I don’t know if they’ve started forcing Benjamin to sign whatever they put in front of him. Seren's captured." He gestured vaguely at the room. "And this is apparently the revolution."

  He looked up. "I'm not a king. I'm a cockatrice who made a very stupid decision. I'm going back to eating rowan berries."

  Kith gave him a sharp look. "Because, that's absolutely not how you ended up in this situation in the first place."

  "I know," Cocky said miserably.

  "Then again—" Kith left it there.

  Nobody filled the silence. Cocky sank slightly lower.

  Merren watched him for a moment. Then announced, "You're right."

  Cocky blinked.

  "Run away. Go back to your berries. Because that's what you are isn't it — a coward, not a king." Merren's voice was almost pleasant. "You don't care about the people of Eldmere. Never did."

  The temperature in the galley dropped.

  Cocky's head came up slowly. His scales caught the light.

  "Don't," he said quietly.

  "Don't what? Tell the truth?"

  "I care about my people." The words came out with an edge Merren hadn't heard from him before. "Don't you ever say I don't care about my people."

  The words hung in the galley.

  Merren studied him for a moment.

  Then he smiled slightly.

  "There he is," he said. "That's the king I need and can work with. Because honestly, a depressed king is going to be useless against someone as self assured as Jorvan."

  Cocky stared at him. Realised what had just happened. "That was—"

  "Effective," Kith said.

  Dain was grinning despite himself.

  "Right," Merren said, pulling up a stool. "Good news and bad news. Good news — Caladwyth is gathering their forces. They're coming." He paused. "The bad news is they need time. Which means we have time to do something useful with." He looked around the table. "We get the people of Eldmere ready. When Caladwyth arrives, it’ll be utterly useless if we’re still sitting on this ship twiddling our thumbs."

  "And the nobles," Kith said.

  Merren's expression shifted slightly. "Yes. The nobles." He straightened his coat. "I have some contacts. Low places mostly. Nobles are—" He searched for the word. "Complicated. For me specifically."

  "Why is that?," Kith asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  "I may have engaged in some wealth redistribution efforts in the past. But yes, we need the nobles on our side."

  In the bucket, Sleech's tail moved deliberately. "Bedwyr," he said. "You need Bedwyr."

  Merren looked at the bucket. Then at Cocky. Then back at the bucket. "The druid."

  "Yesss. Valgarr isss magic. You need magic."

  Merren pointed at the bucket. "That is an excellent idea." He looked at Cocky. "And not just practically." He met Cocky's eyes. "Also helpful for convincing people this plan isn't completely insane. I mean we really could use a Druid. Eels, I’ll leave getting Bedwyr here in your capable fins."

  “Petunia too!” Keen piped up.

  “Oh we definitely need Petuina!” Dain said enthusiastically.

  “Petunia?”

  “You’re in for a bit of a surprise.” Kith said ominously.

  Cocky said nothing. But he didn't look away.

  "Right, then, practical steps," Merren continued. "First — Seren. We find her."

  Dain's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

  "Also, Dain. Taverns. I'll arrange it — musician's work, gathering information, finding who's sympathetic."

  Dain's face did something complicated. "I can’t play anymore— I don’t know. Not at the moment."

  "Few good meals," Merren said firmly. "You'll get it back. I promise." He looked at Prattle. "And you."

  Prattle, who had been listening from his crate with great dignity, tilted his head.

  "You're going to be very busy," Merren said.