“Not here,” the soldier muttered under his breath, glancing around.

“Oh.” Jason put the bag back in his pocket. “Sorry.”

“Act like you’re showing me a document.”

Jason pantomimed taking a piece of paper from his pocket. The soldier stepped close to him and pretended to take it. He nodded at the imaginary permit and handed it back.

“Twenty-five?” Jason tried.

“Thirty is much less than a hundred,” the soldier pointed out, “and you’ll get to avoid prison.”

“I need something to live on until I find work.” Jason had plenty of money for now, but didn’t want to give the impression that paying thirty was no sacrifice.

“Fair enough. Come with me. Pretend we’re talking.”

“Why don’t we just actually talk?”

“Good idea.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Tell me about your work,” Jason said.

“I’m stationed out here to prevent poaching. This tideland is an important resource. If any vagrant could wander out here and pilfer shellfish, soon none would remain. The harvesting must be controlled.”

They were walking past a circular pool. Leaning over it, Jason could not see the bottom.

“That one’s deep.”

The soldier nodded. “Those are tide wells. Specialists dive deep to retrieve rare delicacies. Dangerous job. Fierce predators prowl the deep ones. In fact, some of them intersect far underground. There’s a whole system of tunnels and grottos.”

“Really?”

“Sure as I’m standing here. See those two pools?” The soldier indicated the ones he meant, which were separated by maybe fifty yards.

“Yeah.”

“They’re connected. Some of the divers try to make it from one to the other. I’ve seen two divers succeed, and one drown in the attempt.”

Jason had his hand in his pocket. He managed to open the drawstring bag and work several drooma into his palm. Based on the soldier’s previous reaction, he figured it would be better to pay without displaying his bag of money. “What sort of predators are down there?”

The soldier squinted. “I don’t know all the names, but I’ve seen some ugly injuries. One poor woman came up with a big chunk missing from her side. I heard she died. And I saw another fellow who got tangled with some kind of jellyfish. The thing was wrapped around his leg. You should have seen it. His leg was as red as my tongue and had swelled to three times the size of the other one.”

“Ouch.” Jason slid his hand partway out of his pocket. In his palm were three bronze pellets, two copper, and a silver. He kept the three bronze and fished for different drooma. “Your job sounds exciting.”

“On occasion. Most days it gets tiresome, same as any job. Where are you from?”

“A puny no-name village to the south.”

“Seeking excitement in Ithilum, are you?”

Jason shrugged. “Not so much excitement as a better life.”

They continued in silence for a few minutes.

When they neared a long flight of stone steps that led up to the town from the floodplain, the soldier cleared his throat. “Well, good luck to you. Now that you know about floodplain regulations, have the sense to stay away without a permit.”

“Count on it,” Jason said. He held out his hand. Five bronze drooma were cupped in his palm.

“How about twenty?” the soldier said, taking four of the pellets. “You seem like a good enough sort.”

“Thanks,” Jason said with a nod and a smile. He had not experienced much courtesy or kindness from the soldiers in Lyrian. The small discount left him feeling a surprising amount of gratitude. Pocketing the extra bronze sphere, he mounted the stairs toward a gate in the wall encompassing the town.

The Dockside Inn sprawled along the southern periphery of the wharf, the front door opening onto the worn planks of a long dock. From the window of the upstairs room Jason had rented, he watched the bustling piers grow quieter as the sun descended toward the west.

Jason had inquired about Aram, and the innkeeper had confirmed that he worked exclusively at night. Which had left Jason with little to do for a few hours. In the common room he had ordered some raw puckerlies, a shellfish he had sampled during his previous trip to Lyrian. They had tasted even better than he remembered and had left him feeling very sleepy.

A hammock stretched from one wall to the other. Abandoning the window, Jason reclined in the hanging bed, swaying gently. The prospect of sleeping without having to endure invasive nightmares seemed absolutely delicious. As he drifted toward sleep, Jason tried to program his mind for a short nap.

Had it not been for the music vibrating up through the floor, Jason might have slept the night away. He awoke to a raucous chorus sung by harsh, male voices accompanied by various instruments. His room dark, Jason rolled out of the hammock, shaking his head and slapping his cheeks. Opening the door, he passed down the hall and descended the stairs.

The spacious common room was thronged. All of the tables were full, the bar was crowded, and numerous patrons stood against the walls. There seemed to be at least five men for every woman. Many of the men sang along to the rollicking music provided by three women performing on a small stage in a corner of the room. One of the women strummed a lute; another squeezed squealing notes from a concertina while a third kept time on an oversized tambourine. As the chorus ended, the men fell silent, allowing the women to render the verse in three-part harmony.

His ship went down in a violent storm

Amid the booming thunder,

But he held his breath and scoured the sand

In search of hidden plunder!

When he arose from the briny depths,

His pockets full of pearls,

He found the tempest had drowned his wife

So he kissed all the local girls!

The audience joined in on the chorus.

Old Ingrim was a man of the sea,

The sort you’d hope to know.

He’d buy you a drink

If you shot him a wink

Then tell you he had to go!

The women ceased playing and then curtseyed to rowdy applause. They moved off the stage, and an announcer took their place.

“Give us another one!” a strident voice demanded.

The announcer, a small man with a thin mustache, held up his hands. “They may be back,” he hollered over the din. “Our next participant is Wendil the Fantastic, who traveled all the way from Humbid for our competition.”

A scrawny man with a round face, holding a wooden lyre, mounted the stage. He cleared his throat, his demeanor rigid. “This is a song I composed,” he explained, casting a bitter glance at the women who had vacated the stage, apparently to remind the crowd that they had not performed original material.