Makare read the directions again. “Next to the Baitfish stall on the North Quay.” She looked up from the paper. “Is that the food or the stuff you put on a fishing hook?” she said.

“It’s one word. It’s the food,” said Djet.

Baitfish was a local “Delicacy”. It was one of those delicacies that arises out of a combination of need and culinary ingenuity. It was the same combination that led, elsewhere, to delicacies like chicken feet, snails and haggis. No-one minces up internal organs and cooks them with spices and oatmeal because they like the taste of organ meat. They do it because a calorie is a calorie.

Baitfish was a way to make a meal out of the kind of tiny fish that elsewhere would only be used to catch bigger fish. Sweetwater Lake was so salty that there were no bigger fish. There were only huge shoals of tiny fish and a dozen different kinds of incredibly hardy crustaceans. So the people of Sweetwater would dredge the lake for the tiny fish, batter them whole, deep fry them, dip them in fire rose sauce and eat them, bones and head and innards and all.

The bokkura moved at a slow walking pace, now that they were on the lowest level of the city. Djet pushed it slowly along the lakefront with his pole. As they got closer to the distinctive blue and white checks of the Baitfish stall they could see the class teacher was already there. She was sitting at one of the small tables in front of the stall eating baitfish and drinking coffee.

Three of Djet’s foster siblings from the Foundling House arrived just before them. They had paddled their bokkura across the lake. Cleo Nassar, the daughter of a sailcloth merchant and probably the wealthiest pupil in the class, stepped out of a donkey drawn taxi just as Djet removed the hearth stone from the brazier and dropped it into the forward storage compartment.

Cleo darted for the stall before anyone else could make a move towards it. She pulled out a money belt adorned with more golden rings than Makare had seen in one place since she left her father’s house. Copper was enough for most of the things Makare bought and silver did just fine for her mother’s customers. Cleo pulled a couple of the gold rings off the belt, dropped them into the stall holder’s hand and said something too quietly for Makare to hear. Then Cleo turned round and said, “Breakfast is on Nassar Fine Sailcloth, eat your fill.” She stuffed the money belt back into her pack and went to sit with the teacher.

“That is how you make an entrance,” said Djett.

“Is that the sound of a crush?” said Makare.

“No!” said Djet, a little too loudly. “I just admire someone who knows how to advertise. It’s an under-appreciated skill.”

“I thought you were set on a future as a pirate?” said Makare.

“Or a smuggler,” said Djet. “Or maybe both. Advertising could be useful. Why do you think most pirate ships fly the flags with all the swords and bones and stuff on them? It’s advertising. Tell people you’re a pirate loudly enough and they’ll surrender without a fight. A smart pirate takes only the most valuable cargo. You leave the merchant crew enough so they can sell half for themselves and still have something to show the boss.”

“Are you saying that all sky sailors are pirates to some extent?” said Makare.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“A little bit,” said Djet.

#

Once everyone had been fed and watered, and half the class were visibly buzzing from their first tussle with the kind of coffee favoured by sailors, the teacher led them to a stone archway carved into the living rock. It was blocked with a wrought iron gate that was secured with a heavy lock. “Bring your boats,” the teacher said as she unlocked the gate.

Djet and Makare struggled to lift the bokkura with no help from the flight crystal in its now cold brazier.

“Can I help?” said Cleo, appearing beside Djet and grabbing the side of the Bokkura.

“If you want,” said Djett. “But don’t you have your own boat?”

“It’s getting repainted. Dad’s changing the company colours so all our stuff is getting new livery.”

“Ooooh!” said Makare. She hadn’t meant to say anything but she’d realised something so suddenly she couldn’t keep it to herself.

“What?” said Djet.

Before Makare could answer, the teacher said, “Djet, Cleo, Makare, what’s keeping you? Are you waiting for personal invitations? Signed by the great liberator himself perhaps?”

Once through the arch they were suddenly enveloped in cool, damp shade. Their feet were loud on the wrought iron of an elaborate grate. Beneath that they could see the light glinting off running water.

“You all know about the nameless rivers that feed the lake,” said the teacher. “Well this is one of those. We’re going to follow it upstream until we find the caves where Bassin Barrode and his crew hid from pursuit and planned the founding of Sweetwater.”

They followed her to a staging area. There was a stack of narrow boats, even smaller than a bokkura piled up in one corner. There were dozens of paddles hanging on hooks on the wall. There was also a table weighed down by rune lanterns.

“Here are the rules,” said the Teacher. “You can take your own boat if you’d like but if you don’t have one, or don’t want to take it, you can take one of these canoes,” she indicated the narrow boats.

“Canoe,” said Makare, under her breath, trying to get a feel for the strange word.”

“There’s plenty of rune lanterns. Enough for one each. You’ll only need one per boat but take one each anyway in case you get separated once you’re out of the boats. You can use these paddles, even if you’re sticking with your own boat. In fact I recommend it. The roof is low in places. You’ll have to sit down in the boat and bokkura poles and paddles are too long to use while seated.” The teacher paused as the class shuffled around, dutifully grabbing lanterns and paddles and boats.

“There are no maps of the route and you are not to attempt to draw one. Instead you are to keep your eyes open and follow the signs on the walls. Yes, it is dangerous. Yes, you could get lost and die. So don’t get lost. Stay with the group. Finally, don’t get into the boat until you’ve double checked that you’ve remembered to bring supplies for tonight and tomorrow. If you have somehow forgotten, or already lost them, then see me. I have a small supply of travel rations. Apparently they taste like old sailcloth but they will keep hunger at bay.”

Makare double checked her pack. She still had a full waterskin, bread and cheese for tonight, and dried fruit and jerky for tomorrow. There was also a leather pouch full of her mother’s ever popular bubble rations, balls of compressed date and nut butter, they were tasty, filling and guaranteed to keep you regular. Most importantly there was the filter flask she’d borrowed from her mother. It would filter minerals out of the lake water, not completely, but enough so you could drink it indefinitely without worrying about kidney stones.

“You both good?” said Djet, closing his own bag.

“I’ve got everything,” said Makare.

“I’m good for a couple of days,” said Cleo.

The rest of the class also seemed fully prepared.

“Everyone happy?” said the Teacher. There was a general murmuring of grudging satisfaction. “Good. Boats in the water.”