Harbour-Assessor Jenoso Al'Sule of Cawn, newly appointed, gauged with something akin to horror the wallowing, limping progress of this current entrant to their busy docks. God of a Thousand Moods, please do not sink in a berth! His superiors would note the loss of income! Still, if it did sink, it would technically be occupying the berth and its owners would then be legally obliged… Jenoso smoothed his crisp new uniform, Imperial black trimmed with burgundy, and waited while harbour launches towed the vessel in. Once lines were firmly secured to bollards he started forward, fully expecting a gangway to come out to meet him, yet none came. He stopped abruptly at the edge of the dock, scanned the railing. Gods! What a wreck! Had it been in a storm?

‘Hello? Vessel…’ Jenoso scanned for the name – Beru, no! Who would name a vessel that? ‘Ah, Ragstopper?’

A pale-faced, sickly-looking sailing hand appeared at the rail. ‘No one comes aboard!’ he fairly howled, pointing.

‘Very well – that is your business. Mine is registration and inspection. Now, let me aboard.’

‘No! Go away!’

‘Do not be ridiculous. Your cargo must be inspected, fees levied. Come, come. I haven't all day.’

The man yanked at his long, unkempt, mangy hair. ‘Plague!’ he shouted. ‘Yes, that's right! We've plague! Look out! Ooo!’

Jenoso blinked his confusion. ‘Well, in that case you are in contravention of standard procedure. You must anchor in the bay, raise a black flag…’

An old man with a shock of grey-white bristly hair and a seamed, wind-darkened face pushed the sailor aside. ‘Did I hear the words “standard procedure”? What's happened to all the ports these days? Why, times were in Cawn a few silver moons would – Holy Dessembrae forfend!’ the man cried, staring at the town. ‘You must've tried to tax the wrong people!’

Jenoso struggled to ignore the accuracy of that off-the-cuff observation. ‘Never mind – more so, greater funds are now needed for reconstruction – ergo, the matter at hand.’

The old captain, his thin, sun-faded shirt barely hanging on his bony frame, gestured a clawed hand to him. ‘Why the Imperial colours? I thought Cawn was open to the highest bidder. Or has the bidding closed?’

Again Jenoso struggled to keep his features, and tone, even. ‘I'll have you know that not just yesterday a massed army of close to thirty thousand Cawnese provincial forces marched through here on their way west to the support of the Empire.’

The captain rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing. ‘That so. Yesterday or not yesterday? Which?’

‘Ah… pardon?’

‘You said “not yesterday”- so, which was it?’

It seemed to the harbour-assessor that somehow control of the situation was slipping away from him yet he couldn't exactly put his finger on just how and when it happened. ‘Ah, yesterday, or so…’

‘Well, why didn't you just say so, man! Gods!’

Jenoso's grip tightened so hard on his wax tablet he felt his hot fingertips pressing into it. ‘Sir! The matter at hand…!’

‘What's the matter with the hand dealt to us here is that we're throwin’ in our hand. Looks like the Empire's got all the ports in the fist of her hand so we're pushin’ off!’

The harbour-assessor's knotted brows hurt. ‘I'm sorry…?’

‘So am I. Cast off!’

‘What – me?’

‘Why? Are you enlisting?’ He gestured aside, ‘Cast off!’

‘Aw, no, Captain! Please!’ someone pleaded. ‘Soliel's mercy, sir! We want water, food…’

‘What you want is a chance to desert! Now move!’

‘Sir…’ Jenoso called, ‘Sir!’

‘Yes? You still here?’

‘Sadly so.’

A fey laugh from the captain. ‘That's the spirit, lad.’

Sailors, barefoot, dressed in ragged trousers and shirts climbed over the sides to slide down the mooring ropes. Jenoso pointed. ‘Wait. You can't do that – wait. Mooring and unmooring at a whim! You owe fees – docking, launch crews must be paid…’

‘Tell you what,’ the captain announced, ‘here's a down-payment,’ and he tossed something, a small ball of some kind.

In his panic, Jenoso dropped his tablet to catch the dark ball. He juggled it in his hands, staring. ‘What is this?’ he fairly squeaked.

‘It's what you think it is.’

Jenoso froze, the ball, or ovoid, held at arm's length. His mouth gaped but no sound emerged.

‘Raise sails!’ the captain ordered, ‘we've a seaward breeze. It's less than the gas passed from a countessa during a reception, but it'll do.’

Canvas and ropes rasped, feet pounded the deck. Jenoso remained frozen. His arms ached.

‘Farewell to all these bureaucracy-choked lands!’ The captain bellowed. ‘A curse upon all you assessors and collectors and all you state-run bandits! May you choke in Hood's craw! Goodbye to all fees, tithes, taxes, bills and levies! Damn you all to the darker side of the Abyss!’

The sails caught the weak breeze. Sailors struggled to push off with poles. The captain continued his rant. Unavoidably, this strange activity attracted the attention of the harbour guard and a detachment marched down to investigate. Its sergeant found the harbour-assessor white-faced, arms quivering, a death-grip on an object in his hands. The sergeant gently pulled it from him to study it. ‘Stamp of the Imperial Arsenal,’ he said musingly.

‘Is it…’ the harbour-assessor stammered, weak-voiced, ‘is it…’

‘It's just a smoker,’ the sergeant said, tossing it hand to hand. He raised his chin to the ship easing into the bay. ‘Who was that?’

‘The Ragstopper^ Jenoso gasped as he flexed and massaged his hands together. Peering down he saw that his tablet had slipped neatly through a gap in the dock slats to drop into the harbour. He pressed his hot hands to his face and fought an urge to cry.

The Ragstopper, you say? Well, we'll be waiting for him. No matter where he puts in – we'll be waiting for him.’

The seas were climbing and heavy clouds prefaced a squall, but Yathengar stamped his staff to the deck of the Forlorn regardless, calling assembly of the ritual participants. Ho sat at the stern with Su and Devaleth; the Wickan witch perfectly miserable in the rough weather and the Korelan sea-mage perfectly at ease.

The participants, some twenty-three, not including Yath, shuffled together and again Ho was struck by the sad spectacle. We look like a collection of village idiots, all of us. Hair hacked and badly shaved, dressed in rags scrounged on the ship – all old clothing and sandals and such thrown overboard. Some men even shaved their body hair. Those pale are sun-burned. The skin of all is raw, cracked and bleeding from repeated scrubbing. You'd think plague had broken out on board. Yet it's working – that and having left the islands far behind. I can feel my powers returning. They are there; I just have to dare to reach for them.

The participants arranged themselves in rows before Yath, Seven Cities priest and mage. Ho, of course, had researched ritual magics to a degree far greater than most scholarly mages and Su, he knew, must also be familiar with its demands. Wickan warlocks and witches employed it regularly. Devaleth, he imagined, must also be conversant – Ruse was infamous for the complexity of its rituals.

And none of them had elected to participate. Was this the mere product of personal dislike of Yath, or was there more here – a deeper suspicion, or healthy dread, of the consequences for any participant should things go wrong? Maybe both.

It began well enough. Ho detected only the most negligible interference from the presence of any lingering traces of Otataral. Around the sitting, concentrating mages, the mundane sailing of the vessel continued. The Avowed crew shortened the sails and secured everything against the coming storm. Blues was at the stern-tiller with Treat while Fingers sat beside them propped up against the side. The skies darkened, the thick low clouds churning. Ho wanted to call it all off, but he understood that time was pressing. Events were converging on Quon. A cusp of a kind was approaching during which they must act or thereafter lose any chance of influencing its outcome.