"You know, the doctor would like you better if you told her you were a rebel," said Patrick. They were still on the small street on which the doctor's office was located. Presently Patrick was waiting for the Admiral to decide where to go, as the man was looking up at the moon and the clouds, and testing the wind by holding up his finger in the night air.

"You figured that out all by yourself, did you boy?" asked Ross.

"Drunk sailors are not very keen on keeping secrets, and I kept my eyes open. Noticed how we didn't sail off for a Royal stronghold, or how you didn't send any messages out, nothing. We just came here, for whatever reason, I don't know."

"What was the plan once you got the dog out?" Ross asked, the acrid smoke of his pipe blowing into Patrick's face. "Well, come on now. We're past plans now. I'll just let you go, if that's what your heart desires."

"Will you?" Patrick asked. "I feel as if you're just playing with me and will hit me with the practice sword as soon as we get back on the ship."

"Maybe not." grunted the Admiral. "Maybe this time I'll use a steel one." And then at the look on the boy's face, he let out a strangled laugh. "Ha. Toughen up boy, and learn how to take a joke or you'll never find fun on any ship you have the misfortune to find yourself on."

They walked through the dimly lit streets, listening to their footsteps against the cobblestones. Patrick could not escape his worries, but trying his best to put in action May's training. He wondered what she would do in this situation, and lamented that perhaps she would never have gotten herself captured in the first place. But wasn't she the one who sent him alone into the camp? What did she expect?

The young peacekeeper shook his head, trying to clear it of such treacherous thoughts. May couldn't have known, and if she had, she would never have used him as a pawn.

Ross whistled as he walked as well as puffing smoke as he held the pipe to his lips. He insisted on stopping every few feet, and much to Patrick's chagrin kept busy by kicking the house walls and rubbing the material with his hand.

He turned to Patrick, confused and largely amused. "This is an island right?"

"Oh, I think there's the big one where the town is, New Fenrig, and the two smaller ones, but I don't know the name of them."

"You see any mountains then?" asked Ross.

"Ah, where?" Patrick squeezed the dog close to his chest, the hound's steady drum of breathing calming him.

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"On the island." Said the Admiral, his smile taking on a cutting quality as the man was fast losing his good humor.

"Which island?"

At this, the Admiral turned around and pointedly ignored Patrick as the two made their way down the street. This appeared to be home to the most impressive residents of the island if their houses were anything to go by. Beautiful stones decorated the facade of the houses, some sparkling in the semi-dark.

"Mountain?" Patrick said to himself. "What kind of stones are these?" he asked loud enough so that the Admiral would hear.

The man sighed deeply first, and then replied, "Granite, mostly limestone. None that can be found on these islands."

"Because they're mountain stones?"

"Who knows," Ross said, busy puffing his pipe.

"So how did they get here? Would that be expensive?"

"Exorbitantly so, indeed. Hardly any ships come here," said Ross.

"Maybe they are just rich."

"Richest fish-mongers I've ever met in my cursed life."

"Maybe they were already rich when they moved out here."

"Ah yes," the Admiral all but sneered, his voice thick with derision, "Rich pioneers, the first of their kind not driven halfway by desperation. Straight from the electric-lit capital of the Empire, to New Fearspring, where they throw lavish parties where young nobles while the night away as they inhale the fish gut smell on the air."

"Fenrig," said Patrick, forgetting himself.

At the end of the street was a mansion, more opulent than any others that lay before its path on the street. Intricately carved steps covered in a beautiful carpet led the way to a set of magnificent oak doors, ornate with golden lions heads above the handles.

"Here we go." said the Admiral, extinguishing his pipe, and taking a moment to rearrange Patrick's shirt, and pat down his hair. "Try and project confidence. Don't let your guard down at all, and don't say anything else out of the bounds of politeness, but don't overdo it. Don't be overly nice to anybody below your station. If these people are who I think they are, they might be the way out of all our problems. But one mustn't dare dream too much, as reality will take notice and stamp it out."

By the end of his sentence, Patrick had the feeling the Admiral was mostly trying to raise his own spirits. "What station?" Patrick asked. "I'm nobody."

"No, not nobody. You're my page. It'll infer that you might have some greater origin. The nobles give their lesser progeny off to be apprenticed. This mayor and his ilk will think you're the bastard son of some blue blood or other. As long as they believe me to be proper, they won't give you much thought, even if you are carrying that damned mutt. Gods, look at this, they have red-threaded stanchions showing the way to their front door. There's no accounting for taste. These people must have come on their riches recently. Something on this island is giving them the opportunity to live beyond their class." The Admiral ranted, his eyes taking on a feverish shade, pupils growing cavernous as he went.

"I--" Patrick felt disturbed, regretting not running away when he had the chance. "I can't. I'll make a mistake. Don't put this on me." But his words went unheard by Ross.

"Perhaps they're just old crotchety fools that can't live without luxury. Either way, may Seannsa give us a blessing and we can trick these fools out of some of their coin." Ross finished, calling down a blessing from the god of luck by making the appropriate hand symbols.

"I can't do this." Patrick insisted, feeling as if his throat was closing.

"Oh, yes you can." the Admiral said, leaving no room for argument as he walked up the steps and hit his fist repeatedly on the heavy door.