There’s a poem called “The Jewel of the Sea” about Midway.

  It’s clear the poet has never been there.

  The island has just poked above the horizon: first, the tall alabaster lighthouse, then the rest, a conflict of different-colored buildings and architectures, like barnacles fighting for space on the top of a turtle shell.

  “Did you miss it?” Ulfgar asks.

  Unfortunately, I do. Even more so, I missed sleeping in a bed. No, not just my own. Any. Bed.

  “It’s good to be back,’ I say.

  “Do you hear that, Brick? Even Zane has feelings sometimes,” Ulfgar says.

  Brick lies flat on its back on the deck, arm over its chest. This ship is small, and too many times over the course of the voyage home, it tried to stare at the ocean over the edge, tilting the ship. The captain told us that it had to lie there or be thrown overboard.

  I’d like to see him try.

  Still, I also didn’t want to have to swim back. So, Brick has been flat on its back for quite a while. It doesn’t seem to mind too much. It occasionally points to a passing cloud, as if to comment on its shape.

  It is easy to return feeling like a failure. We are returning the contract with items incomplete. But we are armed with information and a giant stone magic machine. In a little over a year, the Queen of Atrium would be dead, and the vault would be full.

  But until then, it gave me time to rebuild the Blood Coins. Brick by brick. Sword by sword.

  The pilot navigates the ship through the flotilla surrounding Midway. Hundreds of ships anchor off the island, rafts of wrecklings with makeshift floating homes, just a lean-to tarp and small glass contraptions that can turn the water potable when the conditions are right.

  A female tidewatcher, their blue outfit standing out from the backdrop of buildings, and a silver badge shimmers in the sunlight, waits for us at the dock. Her hair blows in the wind.

  “Quite the aura farming, spot,” I say.

  “Very funny,” she says. “Contraband check.”

  Brick stands up. The ship rocks and groans. Three sailors hop onto the deck and tie down the vessel.

  “Animated construction materials aren’t illegal, are they?” I hop onto the dock. Ulfgar follows.

  “I…vrek. That’s a…magic rock person.”

  “Golem.”

  “That. It’s not contraband, but. I’m going to report it. You’re free to go. I suppose.” The tidewatcher leaves the docks, off to headquarters.

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  “Always gotta be on someone’s list,” Ulfgar says.

  “Always,” I say.

  “Brother. We have spent much time together the past few weeks,” Ulfgar says. “I don’t think you will take offense if I take some shore leave alone. We don’t share the same vices.”

  “Have fun, brother.”

  Ulfgar beams before bounding off into his urban paradise.

  Brick and I head back towards the Blood Coin headquarters, and you would think a guy and his giant stone creature would be the center of attention, but a crowd forms a circle around two men.

  The top of Uncle Thorne’s head stands above, and the closer I get, the more I can sense the scene.

  Thorne and another man are at the center. His cloak is thick, velvety, and crimson. Emeralds run down the sleeve. His face is puffy, and his eyes are red.

  “Please, I beg you. I just need more time.” He falls to his knees, his fists gripping my Uncle’s tunic as he crumples to the ground.

  “There’s nothing I can do. It’s not in my hands,” Uncle Thorne says.

  Malakar.

  The white suit parts through the crowd, the people moving almost without thought. The blue skin contrasts with the bright suit. Long fingers with almost longer nails pluck the hat from atop the horns, and he drops the hat on the ground. A tuft of black hair blankets his scalp.

  “No, no, no, no. Please, no.” The man spins, still kneeling, from begging Uncle Thorne to Malakar. “I can get the marks. I just need more time.”

  “Time. Marks. I have plenty of these.” Malakar outstretches a hand toward the merchant.

  The man falls flat to the ground and arches his back. A gurgling fills the air. His hand reaches up as if to beg for mercy, but the fingers contort.

  White wisps of smoke lift off his skin, slowly at first, but faster and faster. His body convulses.

  Malakar’s index finger and thumb leave a two-inch gap between them, and the vapors coiling from the merchant collect and condense in the space, tightening.

  Before long, the man’s skin is dried and cracked. Like a thousand-year-old mummy just unearthed here on the streets of Midway, and a crystal sits between Malakar’s finger and thumb. He drops it into a small pouch on his belt.

  “That’s the show, everyone. Time to go home.”

  The crowd doesn’t need a second warning. They clear out.

  It should bother me more to see how my father met his end. It seemed painful, but at least it only took a minute. There were worse ways to die.

  My Uncle Thorne’s eye with the scar looks at me emotionless, but the other eye shows pity. “Sorry you had to see that.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Better for Midway to see it. Now they can spread the word of what it means to not pay.”

  “Malakar still makes us whole,” Thorne says. “It wasn’t even a large contract. A shame for him to die. Still. A contract is a contract.”

  “Bound by blood,” I say.

  “Bound by blood,” Thorne repeats.

  “Zane, welcome back.” Malakar approaches, his boots clack loudly against the bricks of the street. “I hope for your sake you will finish that Atrium agreement.”

  “I will. Don’t worry. I just need more time, maybe some other work until then.” I think of the Queen’s eyes. The way they looked at me. Almost like she knew.

  “Very well. Then let’s get to work. Shall we?”