But he wasn’t entirely sure she meant it, and Winsen usually managed to walk right on the line where he wasn’t rude, but he was calling her value into question.

“I mean, you have been down this river a few times, right?” Winsen asked.

“Winsen,” Cruxer interrupted. “Are you being an asshole?”

The smaller young man said, “No, sir. It is my specific intent not to be an asshole.”

“Is it also your specific intent to come as close to the line as possible?” Cruxer asked.

Winsen hesitated. One didn’t lie to Cruxer. Winsen had been insubordinate once early on. Cruxer threw him off the skimmer. He’d swum ashore—through waters where alligators were known to live—and had to walk through the afternoon and night to catch up with the skimmer.

When he’d arrived, only an hour before they had to depart, Cruxer had chastised him for being late for his shift on watch. He’d stayed up, and taken his turn on the reeds, too.

“Yes, sir, it was,” Winsen said. “Did I miscalculate, sir?”

“Oh, I don’t know if you were right up to the line or over it, Win. Orholam judges the heart, and so do I. Keep your mouth shut until we make camp, why don’t you?”

Winsen saluted—silently—and that was that. For now.

It didn’t help that Tisis hadn’t really been able to answer any of his questions. She’d told him she didn’t know the lower river. He’d said, ‘But surely you know it better than the rest of us, who’ve never been here, right?’

Seeing that they wouldn’t make it to the top of Thundering Falls that night, they made camp early to avoid staying in Verit or any of the outlying towns.

The Blue Falcon was a wonder yet again. This would have been most of a day’s journey if they’d traveled conventionally.

They’d not only passed the authorities easily, but also avoided river pirates, easily glided over snags that would have otherwise required a pilot with current charts, and been able to hunt from the deck as well.

They’d slowed their pace after getting stuck in sandbars half a dozen times, though. With drafting and a lot of muscle, they were always able to escape, but they lost hours every time. Ben-hadad had already been working on a design for the next Blue Falcon, and he added a shallower draft, camouflage, and a depth gauge to his designs.

That night, as he had several times before, Kip went with Tisis to a nearby village to get the news. Even this far from the fighting, Ruthgari and Forester villagers knew a lot about the world. The Great River was by far the largest arterial for goods and news between Green Haven, the Floating City of Dúnbheo, and Rath—and thence to the rest of the satrapies. Tisis usually learned whatever they knew.

Though she used aliases, the villagers always accepted her as a Forester. In the simplicity of his Tyrean village, Kip had always thought blonde hair and light skin must be pure Ruthgari traits, but the Great River made those who lived on its banks nearly as diverse as any people on the Cerulean Sea’s coastlines.

Tonight they stopped at a beaten-down farm with children’s playthings in the yard but no garden. As ever, they brought game with them, a sure way to find welcome at the subsistence farms they visited, and they called a hello a good distance away to announce themselves unthreateningly.

There was no lady of the house here, only a veteran of the Blood Wars and his twelve-year-old son who seemed less than well mentally, staring into the cookfire and laughing at odd moments, squawking or shrieking suddenly and then giggling, and talking nonsense, sometimes loudly.

Tisis showed no fear of the boy, though, and ended up holding one of his hands in hers, and not minding when he sniffed her hair.

When the veteran saw they wouldn’t have any cruel words regardless of how his boy acted, he warmed to them. He gave them a concise analysis of the military disposition of the upper river cities, and the venues of attack the White King would likely take, given what they knew of his forces.

It was the first time Kip had heard the term.

Apparently ‘the White King’ was what the Color Prince was calling himself now.

By the end of the evening, Kip had asked the man to join them, but Deoradhán Wood shook his head. “You seen my boy. His mother weren’t well, neither. Different than him, but not well. In the head. Or perhaps the heart. She walked into the river two years back. You understand? Walked into the river. Didn’t even leave me a body to bury, a grave to visit. Damn near killed me, too, when she done that. I live for my boy now.”

The man was suffering, but Kip couldn’t help but feel that it was needless. “You’ve got a clear mind and a strong back still. I’d have a place for you. A place of honor and a purpose. Is there none who can take care of the boy for a time? Six months? A year, maybe? We have gold to help, if feeding him and all is a burden.”

“Nah, he’s worth his grub. Good helper,” Deoradhán Wood said. “But I can’t go. My lot ain’t easy, but it’s good. I’ll carry this load until the Highest frees me of it one way or th’other.”

“If someone doesn’t stop the White King,” Kip said, “no one will be able to sit on their farm and live quietly, doing right.”

“I’m no coward, son. No tired old man. But big causes and crowds of strangers? What kinda man sacrifices his own son for that? Besides,” he continued, “I gave my word that I would never leave him, no matter what. A foolish oath, perhaps, but better men have abided by worse. Orholam light your paths and guide your arrows, young warriors.”

When they got back to camp, everything was set up and a fire cheerily burning. They ate and shared what they’d learned. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to help them make the next decision.

At Thundering Falls, they had to decide whether to pay to use the great locks to raise the boat to the level of the river above the falls, to pay for porters, to attempt to port the Blue Falcon themselves, to sell it, or to sink it and build a new one.

They had enough money to pay for portage or the locks, but Cruxer thought they might need the coin later, and porters would be able to inspect the boat closely—the first step to the Chromeria’s losing its secret advantage. The Blue Falcon was too heavy for them to carry easily, especially because the porters were known to sabotage those who eschewed their services, loosening steps and rearranging signs to point hikers up dead-end paths constructed to take them to places where it was impossible to turn around.