Argoth knew if he followed Shim’s advice and ursurped power in the New Lands, he’d face the Ardent at sea, and she would sink anything he sent against her. She’d shut down all trade. She’d land cohorts of men on any beach she liked. And she wouldn’t be the only one. Others would be built like her. He suspected the only way to fight her would be to harness a skir and blow the fire back in her face.

There were no Skir Masters in the Order. And he saw that the Skir Master was right: such ignorance posed an immense danger to them all.

Are you finished?

Argoth turned, expecting to see the Skir Master standing right behind him. But the Skir Master stood almost a ship’s length away at the rear of the after-castle. It had not been a shout, but a voice right behind him.

Clansman?

It was the Skir Master, a whisper almost. He could have counted it as a trick of the wind, but the Skir Master’s lips had not moved. He stood gazing at Argoth across the length of the ship.

“We are finished,” whispered Argoth.

Meet me in the officer’s mess, said the Skir Master in his mind.

Argoth stood with the Skir Master at the table. Leaf sat with quill and vellum. Bowls of firewater, sulfur, and pitch lay between them.

“You will teach me how to make the seafire,” said the Skir Master. “I must be able to replicate it before morning.”

Argoth felt a light wave of desire wash over him. “Of course, Great One,” he said. And for the first time he meant it. The Skir Master was great. A fine man. No, not just a man. A master.

Moments later the desire ebbed and left him standing in shock. He’d always imagined it would be more like a battle, a contest of wills. But this thrall did not batter him down; it simply turned his will traitor.

“Well?” said the Skir Master.

Argoth brought himself back to the task at hand. “Let us begin with the firewater, but may we open the windows first? The vapors are not good to breathe.”

The Skir Master opened the windows, letting in a small but ineffective breeze. Then Argoth began. He told them how one gathered the firewater from black springs and distilled it. When Leaf had captured every detail on the vellum, Argoth poured a small measure into an empty bowl and lit it on fire.

“Such is good for firepots, but you want something that will burn on water and cleave together like tar. For that we must add pitch from pines and terebinth trees and a fine sulfur powder. Such a mixture can be extinguished only with great quantities of vinegar, urine, or earth.”

He told them how to make the pitch, how to find sulfur of the right color and grind it to powder. Leaf wrote everything up, and was as graceful with the pen as he was fighting or walking. But he did not write quickly and made Argoth repeat his instructions numerous times.

An hour passed, maybe more. They moved to the process of mixing. He showed the Skir Master how he had to mix the firewater and sulfur first and wait. He showed him how he could tell this preliminary mixture was correct by the color of the flame, and the quantity of smoke. Then the Skir Master demanded to do it himself.

Argoth walked the Skir Master through each step and admired his quick mind, the way he said aloud what he was doing as he did it.

At one point, the Skir Master stretched as if to relieve his back, and Argoth found himself standing next to him holding a chair.

“Perhaps you’d like to sit, Great One.”

“No,” the Skir Master said and waved him off.

Argoth was crestfallen. “Forgive me,” he said and replaced the chair. How could he have been so stupid as to offer a chair? Who needed chairs? Certainly not someone as strong and capable as the Skir Master.

Argoth resolved to be silent until spoken to. He stood aside, watching the Skir Master continue with the preparations.

A thought came to him: how many had the opportunity to stand in the presence of such a man? How many people had the opportunity to share their talent with him?

Argoth was among a fortunate few, and he beamed at his fortune.

In the back of his mind a resentment, an anger, twisted upon itself. How dare this man take on such honors with lies? But Argoth began to admire the fine lines of the Skir Master’s hands and the thought passed.

The Skir Master arrived at the step where he needed to measure in the pitch. He had too much. Suddenly the Skir Master stopped.

“No, I don’t,” said the Skir Master. “One measure. That is what you said.”

Argoth was disoriented for a moment, had he actually spoken those words unbidden? But Leaf looked as confused as he. Then he realized the Skir Master had heard his thoughts.

And in that moment he knew he did not have two days. He didn’t have one. The thrall was changing him, bending his desires and forming a link between their minds. It might take two days for his admiration to bloom into full worship, for his thoughts to roll open like a scroll before his master. But long before that the Skir Master-

He cut himself off. He needed to move them down to the lower deck next; he needed to get to the barrels of seafire.

The Skir Master looked up. “What did you say?”

“A semiliquid is what we want,” Argoth said. “Too thick and you’ll plug the pumps and lances.”

Argoth felt light-headed. He needed to think and not think. He walked to the window to breathe in fresh air. The sun had sunk low in the west. Over the horizon lay the New Lands and his wife. Nettle. Shim. Thinking of them brought clarity. “Great One,” he said. “We’ve been using bowls. If we want to produce a great quantity, I fear we must move to a larger, more ventilated place.”

“There are too many eyes and ears on the main deck,” said Leaf.

“Then, Great One, let us work on the lower deck, where the materials are.”

The Skir Master looked at the bowls and nodded. He turned to Leaf. “Have this moved to the lower deck. And I want something to eat.”

Half an hour later Argoth stood on the lower deck, the barrels of seafire half a dozen paces aft of where they were set to work. The cook’s boy brought three bowls of food to them. Both the Skir Master and Leaf were given beef, pickled radishes, and rice. Argoth was given a foul-looking stew full of knuckles, the hard cartilage between bones. He dipped his spoon in and saw a white hair poking out. He plucked it up. It wasn’t a hair, but a whisker still attached to the severed muzzle of a rat. Argoth dropped it back. He turned the stew with his spoon. There was an ear and a foot, and who knew what else.

He set the stew aside.

“Eat,” said Leaf with a grin.

“I’m fasting,” said Argoth.

“Eat,” said the Skir Master. “We have a long night ahead of us.”

The Master was right. Of course, he should eat. The food may be filthy, but he needed his strength to teach. Argoth dipped his spoon into the stew, filled it with a hearty helping, and brought it to his mouth. It stank, and when he put it in his mouth, he convulsed, but the Master needed him, so he crunched the knuckles and other bits and swallowed the mess down.

The Skir Master scooped the last clumps of rice from his bowl and set it aside. “It is too quiet. We need more privacy. Order pipes and dancing.”

Leaf nodded. He took the stairs above. Soon the sound of pipes and pounding feet came from above. Leaf rejoined them, this time with grog. Argoth was sure someone had pissed in his cup, but the Master had said he’d need his strength.

He brought it to his lips and thought of Nettle. The boy had pissed in his cup once as a child when they’d weaned him from diapers. He’d cleverly, if mistakenly, used it as a chamber pot.

Argoth put the mug down.

Upon the table two open-flame lamps burned. They were there for light, but also to test the mixtures. They were too large to fit through a bunghole.