Hours later, after countless rounds of Nine Maryns, Fivestones, Jackals Six-Dance, trulls, tarocks, and a little cartomancy, Baloroy threw open the door to the mead hall and swaggered out into the night. Hax, as always, dutifully followed. His head raised high, Baloroy chuckled as he thumbed through a score of Sabler banknotes: the night’s winnings. He would have also had a dozen excellent swords, but waging one’s weapons in war was forbidden. In his other hand, he held a tankard of Ghost Rain Rum from Poor Gables, that ever-rebelling port fifty leagues due east of his current obligation. Gulping down the last drink, he set the tankard on a weapons crate as he passed it. Unlike the vast majority of other men who enjoyed the elegance and sophistication of a good pipe, Baloroy preferred its far less reputable cousin, a rolled bundle of dried tobacco leaves, perfectly fermented, called a sagharot, or cigar. It was a popular choice for men like Baloroy, who found themselves working for the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare and Strange Auspices as ‘rough captains’ where their irregular service mitigated their various brig sentences, excessive debts, or other penalties. Or, in Hax’s case, simply because he could find nothing better to do. As the cigar was foreign to the Island of Arbonhale, it had become a staple of well-traveled men: Ambassadors, on the one hand, assassins, and soldiers of fortune on the other. It was so ubiquitous among the quiet killing class that it had become an unspoken means of identifying operators within that cruel trade. Among those brands he had sampled, he preferred Tremaloro from the southernmost kingdom of Morgandy.

As for Baloroy, he imposed himself equally by presence as by personality. He was a tall, burly, boisterous man with dark eyes, olive skin, and an unkempt goatee. He was at heart a festive man with a great booming laugh that came quickly and infected all who heard it. He wore a dark bandana on his head, an earring in his left ear (for luck, after the manner of the Awenda, a clannish people who lived on a spear of land between two great rivers in Kimjudeya), and layers of leather armor collected from a dozen campaigns across a dozen frontiers. He wore a thickly layered leather pauldron over his right shoulder, and it was sewn directly into his jacket and had long since faded from its colors. Ever deployed, his great sword belt was crowded: sword, dagger, another dagger, coin purse, a small book, a metal drinking mug, spare D-rings, a loop of keys, a half-dozen pouches with double snap closures, and other articles. He was also distinguished by his rather large gloves, buckled around the wrist, which appeared to be his favorite part of his attire. He was rarely seen without them.

Hax’s look, however, was entirely singular. Where Baloroy’s build and belongings abled him to stand his ground against all dangers, Hax’s were intended for taking ground, for movement. He had a lean and athletic build with excellent proportions. His sword belt had few things on it, for where Baloroy brought most of his effects with him, Hax was content to find them wherever he went. Thus, he traveled featherlight. His hair was short, well set, the color of hay, and combed straight back. He had a good face, always set in grim determination, either toward solving those tasks before him or thinking back on that singular defeat that had cost him an eye and kept him silent for over a decade. That first loss, his left eye, was covered by a simple black eyepatch. His leather wardrobe mainly consisted of dark colors, except his coat, which had a dull bluish-gray hint. Looking past the slashes and tears of his attire, one noticed its quality: he was once a wealthy man.

Stopping by one of the Sablers’ many open yard stoves, Baloroy dropped a coin in the cook’s money box and took a fresh seasoned chicken leg from the grill. Halfway through it, he turned to that section of the yard where the Pier of Ventures regularly rested, but it was not there.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Huh,” Baloroy said, taking a last tear at the chicken leg. “Is it just me, old boy, or is something missing?” When he turned to see if the strange terrace had been relocated within the high walls of Anzioch, he was nearly stabbed by the bill of a swordfish carried by an old gray mariner across his back.

“Oh, sorry, sir!” the man said, stepping around him.

Baloroy touched the bill, then wiggled it, chuckling, “Killed by a broadbill. Well, nothing on land can kill me. Why not let the sea have her chance!” As the man continued his way, Baloroy gestured to the empty lot. “You wouldn’t happen to know where that went, would you?”

“That ole venture? Aye, off to war it went without so much as a whisper. That lovely Yale child raised away on it—the blue-haired one! Took her friends with her, she did. And those birds. A most volitant stone if ever there was one.”

Unaware of what volitant meant, Baloroy looked over to Hax, who gestured to the sky.

“Ah, yes, volitant. Of course.” Sniffing once, Baloroy asked, “She didn’t happen to say where she was going, did she?”

“No, sir, can’t say she did. No sooner had she spoken with the Old Eastern than she stole off. Talk is, she’s off to land that mad butcher, another seventh of bloody Ole Kuin.” The man laughed, “My money is on the girl!” Shrugging into the fish, the man walked off to the kitchens. “Mark my words!” he shouted. “In time, they’ll call this whole mess the Maidens War!”

“The Old Eastern, eh?” Baloroy said, repeating the colloquial name for their commander, General Duralamayre, who had been born in the Eastern Fortunes. Throwing away the chicken leg, Baloroy approached one of the night watches’ writing desks. Pulling out a page from a leather portfolio, he tapped it, saying, “To pen, Hax, we must write something clever to exonerate ourselves from this predicament: this recurring shame to which she keeps abandoning us.”

Hax sat down, found a quill, and placed an inkwell on the desk. Ready, he waited on Baloroy.

“To, uh,” Baloroy puffed on his cigar, saying, “whoever it must, more likely than not, eventually worry—that’s stupid. Scratch that. Let us see: Sirs, that blue-haired jackrabbit, is—what? She is, by her own hand, nowhere to be found. I am not saying she’s dead, but most likely—no, scratch that—new sentence. My esteemed lords, Tristanué has disappeared again like—what’s faster? A black buck or a rock dove?” Baloroy asked loudly to everyone near him. He reached out and caught a passing Sabler footsoldier and repeated the question.

“Couldn’t say. But a cheetah, why, that fast lad can run down bad news, which sounds like what you’re writing,” the lancer said before turning back to his duty.

“What’s a cheetah?” Baloroy mumbled. “Anyway, um, all that. So on and so forth,” he rambled. “Your most dependable, incorrupt, and undefeated servant, Baloroy.”

Hax scribbled as Baloroy smoked his cigar. On finishing the report, Hax sprinkled some fine powder to dry it. Then, blowing on it, he handed it to Baloroy, who read it.

“Hax, old boy, you are a perfect liar: ever plausible as all good poets should be,” Baloroy grinned. “Yes, you have added weight to light.” He read a little more. “Discomfiture? What’s that mean? Who cares? Discomfiture, I like it. Excellent, Hax. Excellent.”

Hax, as was his way, said nothing. However, he reached over and slipped out a banknote from Baloroy’s wad.

Baloroy looked down at his winnings, now one bill short. Typically, a fight would ensue after such effrontery, but this was Hax, who, if nothing else, was his friend. “Yes! By god, why not!” Baloroy laughed, “A writer is worth his wages! You have a velvet hand, my friend!”

With that, the two men went off in search of other diversions.