Somewhere below the waterline, in a hold that did not officially exist, sat a crate with no name and one lock too fine for honest cargo. Half the port had heard the rumor by now; the other half had started it. A relic out of Shadowdale, some said. Elemek ore, said others, pure enough to sing when the moon touched it.
Bradan did not care for songs. He cared for the lock — a Shadowdale puzzle-lock, seven tumblers, gold-chased. A lock like that was not protection. It was an invitation, written in a language only six people alive could read. He happened to be three of them, depending on the disguise.
3
He went over the wall at the third bell, when the watch changed and men thought of supper instead of shadows. The rooftops of Dunhaven were old friends: he knew which tiles sang and which kept secrets, which gutters held a man’s weight and which held grudges.
At the warehouse door he paused, coin rolling across his knuckles, the way other men said prayers.
Leia would call this madness. Leia called most things he did madness, usually from the deck of a ship sailing pointedly in the other direction. The thought stung more than the sea wind. He put it where he put everything that stung — behind the next lock.
4
