"Where'd you learn to fish?"

Rigel had landed a fat perch already. Fish pulled in a snubber, just big enough to bother keeping.

Rigel was a long time answering. It was his way; the boy weighed every question as if it was a trap. Fish waited him out. They sat on a ridge of stone that rose a stone’s throw from the river’s edge. Past them, the Rakkar ran swift and deep.

Rigel had picked the spot. Though they’d waded up to their armpits to reach the ridge, Fish hadn’t complained. It was an hour before dawn. The cries of the nightbirds had trailed away, the songs of the daybirds hadn’t yet begun.

Fish had half-expected to wake and find Rigel had run off. Instead, the boy was already up and busy grubbing worms from the riverbank. His rod and line were ready. The dead pimp’s whipping boy was an industrious sort.

The pair fished in silence until dawn arrived. Fish had talked more than enough as they paddled up the river. He could not remember his own name, but he could remember a thousand tales of this land. Every field they passed had a battle behind it.

Over the hills, there had been cities, long since razed and swallowed into the earth. Fish told the boy everything to pass the time and in the slim hope he might remember something of himself. If Rigel minded, he didn’t remark on it. His scars ran deep. The boy’s eyes never left Fish’s shoulders when they spoke. He expected to be beaten for his answers.

“I taught myself,” Rigel said at last. “Herk didn't feed me much, so I'd fish off the Gray Quay before he sobered up. Caught redspines mostly. Sometimes, I'd catch a wheeler or a grimouti."

“You caught grimouti on the Gray Quay? Surprised nobody took it away from you.”

The rod flicked a bit as Rigel’s hand tensed. He was tight all the time.

“Most of the Quay felt sorry for me, I think. Foulmouth kept an eye out for me.”

“Thought he hated everyone.”

“Nearly, but not me. Anytime I caught sardines or rinks, I'd give them to his cats. Nobody wants to fight with Foulmouth. He always bites, and the wound always festers ‘cause he’s got those pointy teeth.”

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“He’s a vicious one,” Fish agreed. “Foulmouth is a Morl, from west of Westernmost Aran. The Isles of Insanity. He never told me why they file their teeth to points."

"Must have hurt.”

"I hope so,” Fish joked.

The boy looked down at his line and didn’t laugh. Soon, he hooked another perch, a bit bigger than the first. Fish caught another snubtrout, this one not worth the effort to gut. He unhooked it and tossed it back.

“Why did you ask me where I learned to fish? Am I doing it wrong?"

“Pah! No. You caught two fish. I caught one. Measure a fisherman by the fish he gets. Don't ever let anyone ever tell you how to do something you do better than them. Plenty of fools see a natural talent and meddle. They ruin it with rotten advice, thinking 'if only he knew the right way!' But right is results. If you're alive at the end of the fight, you're the better swordsman. More fish, better fisher.”

Rigel paid close attention.

“You fish, and I fight, right? To take fish from the sea or to grow grain from the dirt, it’s nothing like cutting a man’s throat. Most aren't born for war. More bark than bite, more flee than fight. It’s a pity. With war all around us, and more on the horizon.” Fish’s gaze drifted downriver. He shook his head.

"Enough fishing. Before we set off, I’ll teach you how to hold that dagger.”

“This is a good spot. Let me fish until the sun rises,” Rigel chanced. His eyes were back on Fish’s shoulders, ready to pay the price. Fish only shrugged.

Rigel landed two more fish before dawn. The first was a big leekeater that would have been a fine meal. But in the new light, they could see black thorns jutting from the catch’s gills. Spineworms. Fish hurled the infested leekeater to the shore so they could burn it later.

The next bite was an almondscale, so big it nearly snapped the pole. Rigel and Fish had to work together to pull the monster in. It was a fine bit of luck. Almondscale were tasty, and their scales were edible.

They could roast the salty scales by the fire and chew them as they rowed. The sun climbed, and the leaves above turned golden. As they waded back to camp, Fish caught a glimpse of a guarded smile on Rigel’s face. The boy landed more, so Fish had to cook. It was tradition.

Their camp was in a hollow on the western side of the Rakkar, near a moss-covered standing stone. Fish had a dim recollection he’d seen this stone before. He could not read the runes. The circular characters were like ripples on a pond.

Though Rigel was illiterate, he’d stared at the stones for some time, trying to tease out the meaning. He was a curious one.

Fish built their fire high and expertly prepared the almondscale. He seared the filets until they were crisp, and they devoured them with relish. What a stroke of good fortune! Pockets full of scales, they broke camp and prepared to venture north.

They threw the leekeater onto the coals and left the fire burning. There was no need to hide their tracks. What fool would follow them on the Rakkar?