“We need to get off the river,” Rigel insisted. Fish did not reply.

Vertus clouds rolled above, each darker than the last. The horizon was lost in a gray veil of rainfall. The drifter at the stern rowed on, his eyes distant and unfocused. Umbra swept over the deep lines in his face, and he seemed to age before Rigel’s eyes. Fish was lost.

Red light roiled through the thunderheads. Rigel began a count. Thunder jolted Fish from his reverie.

“Nineteen,” Rigel said.

“Shit,” Fish hissed. “Let’s land. We’ll hoof it the rest of the way.”

Rigel was already steering the boat toward the western shore. There was a stretch of black sand, split where an ancient sycamore tree had fallen into the river. North, the bank rose in banded bluffs and jutted over the river in a hundred-foot-tall ridge. On a wide outcrop, a standing stone kept watch over the river.

Rigel and Fish landed beside the half-sunken sycamore, dragged their boat up the black beach, and stowed it in a spoonwood thicket. The act gave Rigel hope. Fish wouldn’t bother to hide the canoe if he didn’t intend to return to it. The feeling dwindled as he shouldered their sack of provisions. They were nearly out of food. Rowing all day made it hard to ration.

“Not much left. How long will we be away from the river?” Rigel asked.

“Not long. I know the way,” Fish assured.

Rigel held his tongue.

They followed a set of deer tracks that led up the bluffs and stopped for a look at the standing stone. The three-sided pillar tapered and twisted as it rose. The point was a tight spiral, fifteen feet above them. It looked like an oryx’s horn made of obsidian. Fish stepped up to inspect the southern face.

“Care. The thunder’s close,” Rigel called out. He hung back fifty feet. The memory of the burning watchtower at Rat Square was still fresh.

“If the High Ones want me, here I am.” Fish offered his hands to the sky. When no thunderbolt came, he turned his eyes back to the monolith. He scowled at the weaving letters as if they had done him some great wrong.

Rigel knew they were fools to stand so close, but curiosity nibbled away his resolve. He crept up beside Fish to peer at the stone.

The obsidian was whitened and worn at the edges, but the characters were still legible. Each of the three faces was inscribed in a different language. Northeast bore the rippling ring runes of the first standing stone. Northwest had dense blocks of angular lines. Fish was at the southern face, moving his lips as he scanned a madness of swooping, interlocking lines.

“What does it say?” Rigel asked.

Fish shook his head. He looked troubled.

“I’ve lost too much. I know I’ve been here before, but I can’t remember the Zenyaga. I can only make out a few of the morphemes.”

“What’s a morph-” Rigel halted. “Behind you!” He ducked low against the ground.

Fish shot a hand to his sword and turned.

A canoe was downriver, rowing north. Fish clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Might as well stand. They’ve surely made us. I can’t see how many there are, can you?”

Rigel squinted into the distance.

“Four men, I think. About a mile away.”

“Shit. Wish I had the bow.” Fish frowned with regret. They’d found his broken bow in the mulberry stand, stomped to splinters by the vengeful sow. Rigel motioned to the nobleman’s dagger tucked into his belt.

“I can help.”

“Don’t. Remember what I said: never fight. If there’s four, we’re better off running. We don’t even know who they are. Who would be stupid enough to follow us up the Rakkar?”

“The archmage?” Rigel guessed. Fish shook his head.

“Mages don’t row. Arath is a thousand leagues away, else you’d have never made it out of the tower. He’d pop out of the nether, all flame and fury. I got something for that.” Fish patted the dull chain around his neck.

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Snake lead. Rigel winced, the burnt ring at his collar was scabbed over and still stung.

“Bounty hunters, then.”

“For a dead pimp’s purse? We’re not worth it. They must be after the orb.”

Lightning cracked upriver and put an end to their speculation. They scurried away from the stone. Fish set off west along the trail, but Rigel had an idea. He stripped a flowering branch from a ninebark bush and went back to sweep away the tracks that led to their hidden canoe.

Then, he led Fish upriver. They tread heavy and left tracks a child could follow. At last, they doubled back through their footsteps and slipped into the brush and headed west. They stepped low, careful to leave no trace.

“Clever. Where’d you learn that?” Fish asked.

“On the Yomba. Halfking used to send me to Arnhemgate for river wine.”

“Yech. Cheap shit,” Fish cursed.

“Cheaper still when you skirt the toll. I had to be crafty. Smugglers are good sport for taxmen. Got chased by their dogs, once. Two days on my feet in the hinterlands, I thought I would die. Then, when I got back to Halfking, I wished I had. Chewed me up worse than the hounds would have.”

“Fuckin’ Herk. That little bastard was selling us untaxed swill and still watering it down. I should have killed him twice.”

“Why’d you kill him? Just to shut him up?”

“He forced my hand. We had a deal: once we got the orb, Herk was supposed to fund an expedition to the Rapaxoris. All he had to do was sit on his fat ass while I rowed all the way to High Mountain with twenty men, then half the treasure was to be his. But once he held the orb, Herk changed his tune. Said my scheme was a bad bet, and that he knew a sage in in Urth’Wyrth who would buy the orb. Told me I could either wait for my cut or fuck off. Stupid little pimp pulled a knife on me. Guess my cut came a little sooner than he expected. Ha!”

The gallows laugh rang unanswered. Rigel kept his eyes forward on the path.

“That’s the trouble with bragging and boasting the way Herk did. We all went along with it for a laugh, and he forgot his place. Puff yourself up, you’ll get popped.”

Rigel kept his mouth shut. He would never forget the dead pimp’s wide-open eyes, bulged above the crimson smile. Fish slipped into a dark mood, and the silence grew uncomfortable. Rigel wished he could have laughed along.

Hills overrun with thorny ribes and hookleaf gave way to poplar and pine. Their legs were fresh, but the way was steep, and Fish set a punishing pace. They came across a swift-running stream and stopped to fill their canteens.

“We can wade up this for a stretch, cut south, and loop back. It’ll throw them completely,” Rigel suggested.

“Don’t bother.” Fish swept a hand, dismissing the idea. There had been no more foggy gazes or indecision from the mariner since they spotted the canoe behind them. Danger made Fish sharp.

Rigel gave a curt nod and hid his pique. It didn’t work. They’d spent nearly every second together for days. Fish could see right through his façade.

“When you fool someone, take care you don’t outsmart yourself. The ones following us know who we are, and they’ve guessed where we’re bound. Once it starts to pour, they’ll say fuck it and head straight for High Mountain. If we’re prancing around in a stream, and they cut us off, we’re dead. We need speed now not subterfuge.”

“Makes sense,” Rigel agreed.

Fish grunted approval.

“You’ve got potential, boy. You listen when you’re wrong, and you pipe up when you’re right.”

Rigel narrowed his eyes, wondering why Fish was throwing him a bone. Praise usually meant a pounding.

“Herk couldn’t see it, but I’ve led enough men. You think like an officer. If we can make it out of the Rapaxoris, you’ll be rich enough to buy yourself a title, or a tract of land. Or you could buy yourself a ship and captain it.”

“A ship?” Rigel hung on the word. Square-rigged sails billowed in his mind, full of trade winds that would carry him far, far away from the crooked docks of Tinkerton. He could almost feel the wind on his face. He had to remind himself it was a lie. There was no treasure, only a crazy old man, stringing Rigel along to his doom.

But when he shut his eyes, he could see her: a glorious, three-masted sloop, knifing through the waves. Captain Rigel! Forty sailors at his beck, a fortune in his hold, the Arc entire at his disposal.

The idea bounded in his mind as they marched to the edge of the western wood. They cut their way in. Fish kept his rapier at the ready and Rigel clutched his dagger. All around them were the sounds of small animals, scrambling to find shelter from the storm.

Thunder roared, closer still, and the wood fell silent. They had to stop and let their eyes adjust. It was too dark to see ten paces ahead of them. For the thousandth time, Rigel glanced behind them.

“Will they follow us in?” Rigel asked.

“Into the woods, sure. Into the Rapaxoris? No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s suicide.”

“If it’s suicide, why are we going?” Rigel’s voice was sharper than he intended.

Fish turned his head, and Rigel tensed, expecting a backhand. Instead, he drew a knife. He cut the stitches and took the orb from his pocket. Cerulean light glittered in Fish’s gray eyes and lit a ring around them in the moss underfoot. Rigel wondered if the orb shone brighter than before or if the woods were simply darker than the dingy tavern.

“This is the key, boy. The key to riches beyond reason. Treasure beyond measure! I alone know the path through the labyrinth. Stay close, keep your eyes wide and your wits about you. We’re after the greatest prize of all!”

Rigel waited until Fish’s back was turned to shake his head.

At least the sky was swayed. The clouds above rumbled approval and poured down applause.