In the dead of the night, Yellowhat’s eyes shot open. He felt he’d been shaken awake, but there was no one close. The ground seemed to heave beneath him, but he shook it away.

Spins and night sweats nothing new, he was still better than half-caned. The scrape outside the tower grew louder, as if something crept toward the empty doorway. Frozen with fear, Hat thought Rigel and Fish had doubled back. They were outside right now, knives drawn. In a moment, they would charge in and behead him, just like Herkimer Halfking.

Addled and afraid, Hat became convinced his only hope was to roll on the others. Hadn’t he begged Halfking to get a healer for the boy? Didn’t he always have a joke for the lake-eyed drifter? Hat held his breath and tiptoed out of the tower with his hands raised high in surrender.

By the silver light of the moon, Yellowhat saw he’d been hoodwinked again. As the wind sighed, a dead shrub scraped against the stone tower. Yellowhat sighed with it. He would sleep no more tonight. Blasted cane! He eyed the branches with a dim suspicion that the shrub wasn’t so close to the tower the night before. Perhaps it had uprooted itself and crept closer as they slept.

More likely, he was too caned to recall. He caught a faint whiff of brimstone on the wind, too faint to trace. Was it more phantosmia or a distant fissure? Hat thought he ought to ask the sorceress. He stepped back into the watchtower and promptly forgot all about it.

Inside, he crept back toward his bedroll, stopped short, and squinted in the dim light. Something was missing. Revel’s hacksaw snore was conspicuously absent.

Sters was out cold, silent as a stone. Snorers fared poorly in Tinkerton. Hat noticed the sorceress was gone, too, and cracked a smirk. The star-crossed lovers were too busy rutting to keep watch. He wondered if he might spring out and surprise them for a laugh. There was a miniscule chance they might have him take a turn. There was a far greater probability El Sha La would blast him into ashes.

Alas! A decade ago, things might have been different. He could have stolen the sorceress away from that wretched Revel with a song and a smile. Those days were long gone.

Dispirited, Hat trundled down to the canoe where his makeshift pole was stashed. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well pass the time. He grubbed up some worms, perched on a log by the riverbank, and fished as the night flowed past.

Twice, he felt his seat tremble and spun round, expecting to find a dragon right behind him. There was nothing. The tremors were slight but still unsettling. Hat supposed the ground was restless as well, or perhaps the shants’ frantic copulation shook the earth itself.

Sulfur drifted on the wind; the scent reminded Hat of a wild woman he’d known in Urth’Wyrth. He couldn’t remember her name, damn the cane! Soon, the east glowed with expectance. Not one bite, all night.

For the ten thousandth time, Hat cursed himself for a fool. Now, his joints would ache all day, and for what? What was the use of trying? His luck, his looks, his life, all smoked away. He ought to find that billowing brimstone fissure and fling himself down to Hell, or else pitch himself into the black Rakkar and drown. Let the river float his bloated body into the maw of that so-called dragon.

Hat thought it might be a giant crocodile. He’d seen ones almost as big in southern Ibexia. But Revel wouldn’t listen to reason. He was as stubborn and stupid as the sorceress was stingy with Yellowhat’s cane.

For a bit, Hat wished Fish really had doubled back and Herk’d them both. Alas, it would spoil the bounty. Twenty-five ducats! If they caught Fish and made it back alive, Hat would be set for life. If only he could somehow keep from smoking the whole bundle.

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Perhaps the sorceress could lay some of it away and parcel it out since he couldn’t help himself. Probably, she wouldn’t even pay. Once Fish and Rigel were dealt with, she’d put Sters and Hat in the same grave to keep her secret safe.

Hat spit the bitter taste from his mouth. It was the cane talking. The blue-black threads burned everything away, and hope was the first to go. He’d already placed his bet; it was worthless to second guess. He baited his line and cast one last time.

The dawn was unusually spectacular. Downriver was a wash of lovely pink and orange that reminded Yellowhat of better times in more southerly climes. A haze hung over the north, perhaps a wildfire upriver or the dragon had gone after Fish. In the new light, he noticed motes of fine black dust had covered everything. He sniffed at a leaf and sneezed. Black ash. Revel might be right, though Hat would rather be eaten than admit it.

Just as Yellowhat was about to give up and slink back to the tower, his line twanged with a bite. A moment later, the pole nearly yanked from his hands. Hat held on, but his heart sank. His cheap line and makeshift rod were no match for such a strong fish. Hat fought on with all his craft and care until his palms burned and his knuckles shrieked.

It was stupid. The line would surely snap, the fish would escape, and he’d be left spent, with a full day of rowing ahead. But each time he was about to let the line go, Yellowhat remembered Revel’s shitty grin. In the end, the hat proved mightier than the fish. Inch by suffering inch, Hat landed the glorious trout. She thrashed in his grip and water flew from her iridescent scales.

What a battle! What a catch!

Yellowhat held the thrashing fish by her tail and held her up to the rising sun. Rainbows rippled over her scaly sides. The trout must have weighed twenty pounds. She was still fighting. Hat prepared to thwack her against a rock and end her struggles. He paused and grinned.

El Sha La and Sters were by the fire, having blackberry tea. Their eyes bulged at his flopping prize. Hat held a finger against his lips and strolled over to the bedrolls. Revel was still sawing on.

“Catch!” Yellowhat shouted.

The trout smacked against Revel’s face with a wet THWACK! With a cry of alarm, he groped for his sword and scrambled upright. His blade hissed from his sheath, and he beheld a gasping fish, dying at his feet. Revel blinked in utter confusion.

“What?” he blurted.

“That's a fish. Cook it,” Yellowhat ordered.

Hat took a seat beside the fire with El Sha La and Sters. El Sha La watched Revel’s cheeks color and held a hand over her mouth.

"Cook your own fucking fish!" Revel bellowed, gesturing with his sword.

"Catchers don't cook,” Yellowhat replied, unperturbed by the waving blade.

Revel’s mouth opened and closed; he had no answer. El Sha La snickered through her fingers. Sters cracked up, and the ruin rang with his booming laugh. El lost all decorum and cackled. Yellowhat threw back his head and joined them, vindicated at last. They laughed at Revel long and hard. At last, he sheepishly sheathed his sword. This ignited another fit of giggling.

“I don’t cook,” Revel muttered.

“Those who do not work, shall not eat,” chimed Sters. The others nodded in agreement.

“I never agreed to that stupid tradition,” Revel complained.

“That’s how tradition works. No one agrees, but all obey,” Hat mused. Triumph made him philosophical. With a sigh of defeat, Revel picked up the trout.

“Don’t do that again,” he warned.

“Wait,” El Sha La interrupted. “While you’re down there, fetch me some water. Our master angler deserves a cup.” She motioned to the blackened copper pot beside the fire.

Revel glared at her. For a moment, it looked as if he might hurl the fish. Instead, he dropped his stare, scooped up the pot, and hurried down to the river.

"Quite the catch,” Yellowhat grinned.

“Clever bard,” El Sha La approved, "I don't keep him around for his brains."

Yellowhat raised a single eyebrow and wiggled his ears.

El Sha La snorted in surprise and sneezed. The ruined tower rang out with laughter.