Levor sprawled along the curve of the bay, clasping the hillsides in tiers of narrow lanes and leaning houses. Below, by the water, jetties and warehouses pressed close—squat stone hulks with iron shutters. Higher up began the residential quarters: houses clung to one another so tightly that the roofs of neighboring buildings nearly touched, forming above the streets something like a curtain.

  The city never truly slept. In the dead of night, taverns spilled the yellowish glow of oil lamps; talk carried, and drunken songs.

  Waves with a soft hiss rolled onto the stones of the breakwater, leaving a rim of foam that at once melted into the dark. A dense fog stood over the water, turning the silhouettes of ships into ghostly shadows, with lanterns on their sterns glimmering dully.

  Sedrik stood at the edge of a roof, looking down at the lights. Many years ago this place had struck him—then he had first seen the sea and ships, tasted strange foreign drinks and fruits. Master Vensan adored Levor, said that “freedom hangs in the air here.” The old man had always been a romantic.

  Returning after so many years, the old sheen had evaporated. Just a mass of stone above a puddle, peopled by a rabble burdened with survival.

  From the roof the harbor could be seen well.

  The guarded pier stood out among the rest. A tall palisade with iron gates, two lanterns at the entrance, and three guards with halberds. Beyond the fence rose the masts of large vessels, but Sedrik’s gaze at once found what he needed.

  “Saint Ormelia.”

  A two-masted merchant ship swayed slightly to the rhythm of a gentle swell between two smaller craft.

  Sedrik narrowed his eyes, counting silhouettes on the deck.

  Four. No—five.

  Three sailors—one at the bow, two by the gangway. Two more guards in leather jerkins patrolled the deck, crossing from rail to rail.

  By the papers, the ship is transporting wine, olive oil, bolts of silk, and spices from Zifria itself. Costly, bulky cargo—unlike the chief treasure hidden away in the captain’s cabin.

  The captain himself had gone to meet influential acquaintances, and his return was not to be expected before dawn.

  That left a window—narrow, yet enough.

  Sedrik checked the moon’s position—midnight. The watch usually changed at that hour, and so the guards’ attention would be dull. The thief crawled to the edge of the roof that hung over the sea. Below, black water slapped and lapped, catching the rare glints of lantern light. The mast of the nearest ship seemed not far. With a quick swing, the hook tied to a rope bit into a wooden crossbeam. He jerked it twice to test, then Sed took the rope in both hands, shoved off from the roof’s edge, sailed over the water, and landed softly on the barge’s yard. Checking for guards below, he carefully worked his way to the mast, climbed down the rigging to deck level, and quickly circled it.

  One jump remained to “Saint Ormelia.”

  Waiting until the patrol went around the corner, Sed counted three heartbeats and jumped. His fingers latched onto the rail; the thief hauled himself up and at once rolled behind the nearest barrels. Glancing back, he crawled along the side, pressing himself into the mast’s shadow, then slipped behind a stack of canvas-wrapped bales.

  Nearby came the sailors’ voices. The guards continued their rounds at a lazy pace, and the illicit passenger moved toward his goal.

  Ahead, at the stern, rose the captain’s cabin—a small deckhouse with a slanted roof and a narrow window. The door opened onto the deck. Beside it stood a lantern, casting a circle of dim light.

  From the other side a crossbowman appeared, looked around, and continued his patrol.

  Sedrik waited until he vanished again around the cabin’s corner, then in a burst crossed the open space and ducked into the shadow beneath the door’s overhang.

  Without delay, the thief drove two steel pins into the keyhole. Inside the mechanism something crunched like salt. The first pin yielded with a dry click. The second did not.

  The crossbowman’s heavy steps felt closer. The edge of the lantern’s yellow light was already visible.

  Utterly focused, the thief pressed a little harder, working around the jammed spring.

  A third pin. The last. The crossbowman stopped. Sedrik held his breath. His fingers froze on the pick. Sweat beaded on his brow—not from fear, from concentration. The corner of his eye caught the light grazing the edge of a boot. The thief forced the final catch down—sharp, yet smooth. A heavy metallic sigh sounded as the mechanism gave. Sedrik pressed the handle—the cabin door yielded inward. He slid into the gap that opened, holding the latch tongue with a finger so it would not clatter when it closed.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The door shut. In that same moment the crossbowman walked past.

  Sedrik went still by the door, waiting while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The only light came through a narrow stern window barred with an iron grille. The air smelled of stale wine, wax, and old leather.

  The cabin was sparse, yet soundly made. In the center stood a massive oak table, bolted fast to the floorboards. Beside it, on chains, an empty oil lamp swayed, creaking evenly with the waves.

  Sedrik went to the table. Navigation instruments, an hourglass, sheets of parchment lay strewn across it. A dolphin figurine stood out; other symbols of Meor were likely here too, but they rarely held any value. His followers had a strange habit of throwing anything valuable into the sea.

  Sed dropped to one knee and began feeling along the table’s sides.

  Dense wood, joint to joint, without a single needless gap. Sed drew a thin awl and slid it into the seam between the outer paneling and the inner drawer. The difference in depth from outside to inside was two fingers. Too much for a simple partition.

  He began methodically tapping the bottom of the lower drawer. The sound was dull until his fingers reached the right corner. There the wood answered a touch more clearly. Sedrik felt a tiny hole, plugged with wax the color of the timber. He scraped the wax away with his knife point and pressed a thin pin inward.

  A dry click sounded. The drawer’s bottom lifted by a few millimeters.

  Sed hooked it up, revealing a hidden compartment where three narrow scrolls lay, bound with coarse twine. He unrolled one of them and held it to the faint moonlight, revealing a strange system of lines drawn over a map of some coastline. Rolling the parchments back up, he tucked them into his chest and set the drawer bottom in place again.

  — HEYYY! — came suddenly from outside.

  Sed at once flattened to the floor, his attention snapping to the door. No one was forcing it, but something was clearly happening on deck.

  — Abele! Come out! — someone shouted, the voice breaking into a rasp.

  Sed cracked the door and saw the guards moving toward the port side.

  — Begone! — carried from farther off.

  Catching the moment, Sed quickly left the cabin, returning by the same way he had come. The noise had been raised by some drunk raging at the gates, but the details were of little interest.

  Back on the streets, he headed deeper into the city, winding through narrow alleys until he reached a small inner courtyard. A scarcely noticeable cellar adjoined one of the houses.

  Glancing about and making sure no one tailed him, Sedrik went down the narrow steps and pushed a low door.

  Inside burned a single oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling. Along the walls ran shelves with crates and sacks; in the corner loomed an iron-bound chest.

  A man sat behind the table.

  Tasien. For someone whose trade demanded secrecy, he dressed with flair—a bright red-and-yellow doublet. His ginger hair was slicked back and greased with something that gleamed.

  On the table before him lay scales and pages of parchment.

  Sedrik came up to the table and tossed a rolled parchment onto it.

  Tasien unrolled the document and held it to the lamp. His thin lips twisted into something like a smile.

  — It.

  — Money, — Sedrik said shortly.

  Tasien rose without hurry, went to the chest in the corner, opened it, and drew out a weighty leather pouch. He returned to the table, untied it, and poured its contents onto the wood.

  Silver coins rang out, scattering across the tabletop.

  — Thirty-five forrins, — Tasien said, settling back down. — As agreed. And also… — He took out a folded paper and passed it to Sed.

  Sedrik nodded, tucked the paper into his belt, and stepped aside, counting quickly.

  — There is a problem, — the fence said.

  — Does it concern me? — Sed asked, not looking up from the count.

  — In part. Do you remember that merchant, Kiprino? The guild tracked that I sold his collection, and took an interest in who stole it for me.

  — So I take it they’ll be here any moment?

  — Do not darken it so. Alive, you’re worth more to me than your reward, but for a time you’d best not come here. For now you’ll receive commissions through my assistant. Meet him tomorrow at the market; he’ll explain the particulars.

  Sedrik tied the pouch’s knot and left without a word. The moment he stepped into the street, he listened sharply to the world around him and slipped into shadow.

  His path led to the very edge of the crowded yards. Before he reached them, he turned into a dead end.

  He shifted three large cobbles aside, opening a narrow crawl, and squeezed in. Behind the stones began a short tunnel, scarcely wider than his shoulders, leading into a small round space.

  A well.

  Long dried, abandoned. The bottom was paved with smooth stones, in places cracked by time. The walls climbed upward; the top opening had long since been choked with rubble—no light reached here at all.

  Sedrik struck his flint, sparked it, and brought it to a small oil lamp set in a recess in the wall. The wick caught, and dim light spilled across the circular space.

  In one corner—a rolled blanket and a battered straw-stuffed tick. Nearby—a water flask, a cloth-wrapped piece of dried meat, and a heel of bread. On the opposite side—a worn mat with tools: picks, a hook, spare rope.

  Sedrik shrugged off his cloak, crouched by the lamp, and pulled a note from his pocket.

  The text was written in a small, neat hand, but not in any common tongue. The letters formed words that seemed senseless at first glance; lines ran out of order, some symbols were inverted or struck through.

  The remainder of the night was spent on deciphering. When the meaning at last emerged, Sedrik burned it at once. The return to Seltrivel was proving more and more interesting…

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