It was a night like any other—save that the old fisherman, queasy after supper, had gone to bed unusually early. As Gilbert cleared the dishes, he kept reproaching himself, blaming himself for not preparing something finer for the old man's last meal. "I don't dislike him," he told the iron plate. "He's a kind man." The old man's snores filled the timber shack.

  When the washing-up was done and the place swept, Gilbert sat outside the door. His gaze traveled back and forth between the night sky and the sea, weighing his next move. A night watchman approached the pier bearing a torch, hiccuping as he walked. "Evenin', Gil—hic—bert..."

  "Good evening, friend." Gilbert raised a hand in greeting. "What brings you out this far on patrol tonight?"

  "Uh..." The watchman scratched his cheek. "Perhaps I ate too much. Thought I'd walk it off." Old Fisher's hut stood at the northernmost curve of Bellita Bay. "Where's Old Fisher?"

  "He ate too much as well and turned in early." Gilbert smiled. "He's to see me off tomorrow, so tonight he prepared his specialty... fish stew. And then," he shrugged, "you see the result."

  "See you off? You're leaving?"

  "Yes, friend. I've been here half a year. Time I went home."

  "There's a war on out there, Gil—hic—bert!" He paused to catch his breath. "Where's home?"

  "Duviliel."

  "You can't go back, Gil—hic—bert!" His face twisted with alarm, as if he were more anxious than Gilbert himself. "Look—the Throat Road's been choked off by the Godmans. If you want to head north, the only way is through Kulen Mountain. And crossing Kulen is no different than jumping into the sea and ending it all now."

  "Don't worry, friend." Gilbert reassured him. "Even with Godmans holding the Throat Road—such a broad highway—if a few slip through, who would notice..." The watchman's palm kept slashing across his own throat in a dire warning. "And if the Throat Road truly won't do, I can cross by Kulen and reach Duviliel. Don't forget, I've already gone with Old Fisher from here over Kulen to Cynthia."

  "You can talk about Cynthia all you want—getting to Duviliel is an entirely different matter." The watchman's bobbing torch irritated Gilbert. "I think you should stay, Gil—hic—bert. Bellita's no wealthy place, but it's no nest of trouble either. Stay here. You'll be safe."

  "I understand your concern, friend—and I thank you. But my mind is made up. My father awaits my return, and soon."

  Seeing he could not be persuaded, the watchman hiccupped a dozen times in succession, expelling the meal's trapped air. "Very well then, Gilbert, I won't insist. You leave tomorrow?"

  "At first light."

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Shall we come see you off?" He seemed certain Gilbert wouldn't refuse such an offer. "The whole village has grown fond of you, Gilbert—especially the headman. He's always saying that bed you constructed for him sleeps wonderfully soft."

  Gilbert shook his head with a smile. "I appreciate the kindness, but I've contributed little enough to warrant such a send-off. Please tell everyone I'm grateful for the thought."

  The watchman pursed his lips; a fresh bubble of gas rose in his belly. "All right, all right. Have it your way." He waved farewell. "Safe journey—hic."

  "Thank you, friend."

  Only after the watchman had vanished from sight did Gilbert spit contemptuously. "You like me?" he said, mocking himself. "You won't, villagers. Not once you learn what I'm about to do."

  Time, when faced with a man burning with urgency, slows its pace deliberately to stoke his rage. Gilbert merely cursed under his breath and reclined for a short while. During that span, he drifted between wakefulness and slumber—sleep, because the work ahead would drain his physical strength; waking, because it would equally tax his mental faculties.

  "It's time." Gilbert rose and brushed himself off, as if shaking free the silver moonlight that had blanketed his body. "Time for what?" a thin, girlish voice sliced through the darkness.

  Gilbert's fish-spear struck fast, hard, and true—stopping a heartbeat shy of punching four holes through the intruder's face. A young girl revealed half her body above the water at the pier's edge and fell silent in terror, her mouth—still flecked with seaweed—hanging open. The apprentice fisherman's expression darkened. "Who are you."

  She blinked. "Second time: Who. Are. You."

  Her voice was needle-thin and grating. "Shinaz. Shinaz Morkachka."

  (Damned woman.) Gilbert's gaze shackled her like iron chains, freezing every muscle save for her lips. "Are you from this village?"

  "N-no." (Then why is she hiding in the water!?) Her terse answer ended abruptly; she clamped her mouth shut. (A Cynthian spy? Have they had agents planted here all along? Bad—this is very bad. And I thought I would be the first.)

  "I mean no harm, sir."

  "Neither does this fish-spear mean any harm, miss. It merely ends your life in a single stroke. Tell me—what are you doing in the water?"

  "Swimming." The answer came without hesitation.

  Gilbert wondered if she was mentally unsound. "Come up here."

  "Me? Up there?" She pointed to the pier.

  "Yes. Now."

  "I cannot, sir."

  "Cannot?" He tilted his head in displeasure. "I have no time for idle chatter. Up. Or it will be your corpse that washes ashore."

  Her face crumpled with distress, tears threatening to spill. Intimidated by the spear, she grasped the pier's wooden planks and hauled herself up.

  Gilbert nearly forgot to breathe. Before him on the pier was a Merfolk.

  A female just reaching maturity, as evidenced by her divided twin tail-fins. From the waist up, she resembled a human woman—one might even liken her to an elven female—save for three gills at her throat, pulsing open and shut in the air: these, along with the brilliant blue scales and fins of her lower half, were her unmistakable distinguishing features.

  Gilbert swallowed repeatedly, unable to form words.

  "I told you, sir," she continued, her voice now strangely melodious. "I'm not particularly fond of being on land."

  "You're Merfolk." The apprentice felt foolish stating the obvious.

  Seeing him lower his weapon, the mermaid giggled. "Yes, I'm Merfolk. A mature one." Her twin fins drummed the boards in a rhythmic pattern as she set her hands on her hips with pride, flaunting her pale skin and firm, wet breasts. "You nearly frightened me to death just now, sir."