Top-tier intel support

For a while, no one spoke in the shack. Everyone stared at the precipitate.

Gordon had previously kept the box at the university. The Royal Academy of Natural Sciences University was itself a research institution, housing a vast collection of curios, some of them even higher-grade.

Among them, it had actually been inconspicuous.

Outside, with the precipitate exposed, the effect was entirely different.

In the water beneath the shack, fish gently bumped their heads against the planks.

Old Baz's gaze settled on Gordon's face.

"So, why are you hunting Harold? Does he owe you money?" he asked.

"He sent people to watch me. They followed me all the way to the fried fish shop. Very rude," Gordon said.

"Same old Cultist habits." Old Baz snorted.

"How so?"

"Because once you have an honest livelihood, you understand something," he said. "When people wake up, most of their attention goes into getting through the day. Paying rent, fixing boats, paying wages. Only Cultists spend all twenty-four hours watching people, tailing them, assassinating them, and drawing circles."

Gordon found that perfectly reasonable.

The frequency of Esoteric Cult activity was linked to the city's unemployment rate.

If the emperor could achieve full employment, no one would bother with a life where they might not survive until tomorrow.

"Your people have seen him?" Gordon asked.

"Yes. They have," Old Baz said slowly. "More precisely, someone bought an enormous clam shell from the market. Three people couldn't lift it. The inside was red, like freshly cut flesh. They kept pouring river water over it as they went, as though it still wasn't wet enough."

"How big?"

"Big enough to block half an alley. Probably the shell of an adult giant clam demon. They loaded it onto a boat and took it out of town, to Lace Pumping Station west of the city."

"You're keeping a close eye on the order's movements. Sounds like more than professional rivalry," Gordon said curiously.

"I nearly joined them when I was young." Old Baz touched the scars on his face. "Back then, I might've been even poorer than you."

"That wasn't very friendly," Gordon said.

"Anyway, you get the idea. Someone on the docks told me that if I took part in their ritual, I'd never starve to death again. Only later did I learn that plenty of things really can't starve to death, because they aren't even alive," Old Baz said.

"Blackwater Baptism?"

"Yes. They throw living people straight into the river. Some come back up. Some don't. And those who come back aren't necessarily the same people anymore. I didn't dare take the gamble. I ran." Old Baz pointed to the scars on his face. "This was their parting gift. They said the river should remember a traitor's face."

"People back home do that too." Peter had barely finished when he noticed everyone looking at him. "For the record, I observed from a very considerable distance."

"You don't strike me as someone who'd let that go," Gordon said.

"The fellow who cut my face? I later turned him into a specimen and sold him to an underground clinic." Old Baz chuckled.

"So you really enjoyed killing those Deepclaw Demons last time." Gordon understood.

"Water Monkeys aren't my brothers." Old Baz waved a hand. "Last time, we used this thing to haul up so many Water Monkeys that the whole market was selling them. The order went mad. We cut open what they considered family and sold it by weight. That night, I had roast leg of lamb for dinner and slept like a baby without a conscience. If you see Harold, tell him Old Baz sends his regards."

Gordon picked up the two small bottles of womb amniotic fluid. He was about to complete the trade when he paused to think.

Harold, Lace Pumping Station, a clam shell big enough to block an alley. What sort of puzzle was this?

A clam shell couldn't serve as a weapon, and it usually wasn't furniture either.

It was more like a container: sealed, damp, and difficult to open from outside.

If Harold was using it to hold something, to hide something, they couldn't exactly expect Vera to pry it open with her sword.

He scanned the shack. Harpoons and old shotguns lay piled against the wall, with ammunition crates beneath a waterproof tarp.

"By the way, do you sell the stuff you normally use to blow up fish? Not the Fried Fish Brothers kind. The kind banned under the laws of the Logris Empire," Gordon asked tactfully.

"Ah, nitroglycerin," Old Baz said.

"Exactly." Gordon revised his assessment of the man.

Old Baz thought for a moment, then waved to two of his men.

They carried a squat wooden crate out of the shack's back room. Its corners were clad in copper, and the Davy Mining Company's emblem was stamped on the lid.

They pried it open.

[Diatomaceous Earth Explosive. You have discovered a rule: all beings are equal.]

"Is this stuff registered?" Peter's face went pale at the sight.

"Of course." Old Baz seemed unconcerned.

"Where?"

"In my heart."

Old Baz provided a boat, moored in a pitch-black water alley behind the market.

It was long and narrow, with a shallow draft. Iron bands reinforced its ribs, and its hull was coated in tar, gleaming black in the dusk.

Peter stood on the dock studying it for a long time, then finally took a step back toward the academy.

"You're really taking a boat upriver to some Lace Pumping Station to find Cultists? I'd say the odds are pretty uncertain," he said.

"The odds are in heaven's hands," Gordon said. "If we're lucky, we might even have a friendly exchange."

"Cultists don't speak human, and I don't speak fish. You don't need me for this exchange." After saying that, Peter rattled off a few more sentences in his native tongue.

"You're already involved. Sooner or later, the Cultists will slice you open like a fish," Gordon warned.

"I don't believe that. I have legs, and fish don't," Peter said. "But I can go back to the academy and pass a message to the person from the Montfort family for you. Don't worry, I'll word it just right. Enough for her to know where you've gone, not enough to make her cancel class out of anxiety. If you're missing for more than a day, I'll tell the patrol officers to fish you out."

"Fine."

"Don't die in the river." Peter shoved a small box of Pain-Relief Tincture into Gordon's hands. "Use this if things get bad. You could crawl ten miles with two broken ribs. Probably find your way to some farm outside the city or something."

"Thanks. Did you steal it?"

"Borrowed it. Come back alive and sign for it, and it'll be legal," Peter said. "Bodies pulled out of the water are a real hassle. Once they swell up, their faces change, making identification difficult. And the academy has so much paperwork..."

Muttering, Peter left and disappeared into the fog and lamplight.

Gordon shook his head.

Besides the explosives, Gordon had also packed several sheet-metal boxes and stowed them in the boat.

"What's in those?" Vera looked at the metal boxes.

"A secret." Gordon nudged one with his foot, settling it into the bottom of the boat.

They made one final check. The boat held things that could help them fight the Esoteric Cult: harpoons, a waterproof tarp, a windproof boat lantern, and, of course, that crate of explosives.

It was time to leave.

Fog rolled up from the river, carrying a fishy smell, coal smoke, and damp cold. A steam whistle sounded in the distance, like the mournful cry of a giant beast.

The river lapped against the boat, rocking it gently, as though testing how thin the hull was.

They sat in the same little boat, heading for the Cultist's hideout.

"When we find Harold, we'll need a strategy," Vera said. "Some high-level Cultists invoke powers even they don't understand. They grow bigger and taller when they touch water."

"I know. We need to work together," Gordon said.

"Mm." Vera said, "Do you remember subcontracting one of my commissions the other day?"

"Completely forgot."

"Anyway, they found the body, and the commission was completed. It was as uneventful as those few sentences," Vera said. "The agency said I'd gotten smarter. But I know I don't deserve the credit."

"Neither do I. The money does," Gordon said.

"Idiot."

The boat was too narrow for either of them to back away. Vera picked up an oar and pushed it through the water.

The boat left Lundenim's sea of lights behind.

The current parted around its sides, then closed again in its wake.

Hatred was like a fish fry. Leave it alone, and it wouldn't repay you with gratitude. It would only grow fatter and fatter.

Until one day, while you were fishing, it leaped out of the water and ate you.

Gordon couldn't let people who hated him live too long.

The Wet-Foot People had once wandered the city carrying his portrait, with Harold directing them from behind the scenes. After tonight, everything would be different.

Setting those thoughts aside, Gordon turned. Vera was sitting in the stern, rowing.

"How much farther?" Gordon asked.

"A few minutes," Vera said.

"Is 'a few minutes' just a figure of speech? Like when you feel awful but only tell the doctor, 'It hurts a little'?" Gordon asked.

Vera glanced at Gordon.

Gordon immediately understood that if he said another word, she would give him a very specific explanation of "hurts a little."

Lace Pumping Station emerged from the thick fog.

The pointed roof of the pump tower appeared first. The dark-red brick tower thrust straight into the low clouds, crisscrossed by cast-iron reinforcement beams blackened by years of coal smoke.

Two chimneys stood behind the tower, one thick and one thin. The former belched intermittent clouds of black smoke, while the latter exhaled white smoke in a steady rhythm.

On the river side, a huge intake pipe extended from the pumping station, its mouth submerged, gulping down water.

"Look, the boiler's running, and the pumping station can't shovel its own coal. Seems I misjudged the Cultists. Not only do they have jobs, they volunteer for the night shift."

"Rawr," Vera said.

She rowed the boat into the water gate behind the pumping station. The iron bars were mottled with rust, and weeds hung from them, drifting slowly in the undercurrent like the green hair of drowned people, still uncombed.

Vera sniffed the air.

It reeked of dead fish. She picked up Gordon's Living Water Compass, which spun once and pointed in every direction.

"Enemies here. Can't pinpoint their positions," she said quietly.

Gordon closed his eyes. The Eelbone Amulet rested against his chest, making his presence less noticeable.

Unbroken Strings stirred in his mind. The world lost its color, then Gordon sketched it anew through countless vibrations.

River water slapped the stone bank. Deep inside the pump tower, machinery churned back and forth, drawing water.

Then came humans and scaled, nonhuman beings. They might have hidden themselves well, but their breathing stirred the air, and their bodies parted the flowing water.

Gordon silently sensed the frequencies.

"...One adult Deepclaw Demon under the boat. Another on the wall behind us, not very big," Gordon reported. "Then three Wet-Foot People, close by. They came through five minutes ago. All in the bushes on the left, carrying axes and shotguns. They're covering you. One in cloth, one in leather, and one shirtless."

"?" Vera listened.

Top-tier intel support!