The assassin leaned against a piling, arms folded. "Tell me what you require."

  "We need to depart as soon as possible, sir." Henris Weber Ian took the lead. "Even on Kulen Mountain, we want the fastest route through."

  "Shall I take it, then, that time is your enemy?"

  "Yes." Wally cut in. "Time—damn it to hell—is our enemy. Whatever it takes, we must be swift."

  "Even if that may mean encountering certain... dangers?" The old fisherman explained, "You know as well as I: a straight line is the shortest path between two points. But this route cuts straight through the devil's heart."

  "And you know as well, good sir, that we have no desire to march down a path of suicide." Henris's words struck home. "We must strike a balance between peril and time—and that is precisely your charge, do you understand? We'll be taking roughly eight hundred men up that mountain. Save the crew left to man the warships, that's our entire fighting strength. The route must lie within our capacity to survive—yet also favor speed. Those are our terms."

  Bryce Banhart listened carefully and nodded slowly. "Of course, if you tell me there's only one safe road, that's another matter."

  "There's more than one, my lord." (One lives. One dies.) "So far as I know, two routes lead from Kulen Mountain to Cynthia. One is the caravan road—it winds down the flank of Windcloud Peak, giving the mountain's heart a wide berth. The other begins at the foot of the mountain and climbs straight up. However, it certainly carries a degree of peril. But I believe it meets your needs. It holds the advantage in time."

  "How much time does it save?" The prince could barely contain himself.

  "Perhaps—mark me, perhaps, because I've walked it only once and cannot guarantee the hours with precision. That said, the one time I took it... four days."

  "That's the one!" Wally's hand came down hard on the old fisherman's shoulder before the man could dodge. "I mean to win, Old Fisher. I mean to beat time itself."

  "Don't get ahead of yourself, Highness." Henris checked him. "If we take this path, what must we watch for?"

  Bryce Banhart had no wish to breathe a word of the Rainbow Forest or the Black Pool. "Weapons, my lord. Every man must be armed."

  "The headman warned us of that already."

  "Of course." The killer smiled. "Because I told him so. Beyond that—horses. A great many horses. The more, the better."

  "The headman mentioned that as well, sir." Henris's tone began to cool; he was starting to doubt whether this guide had anything worth the pearls.

  (That damned headman. Damn Fisher.) "Seems our charming headman is better suited to my post than I am." He gave a self-deprecating smile, pitch-perfect. "One more thing: you must watch for ghouls."

  "We know full well that on that cursed demon-mountain we'll be dodging a thousand kinds of monsters."

  "Do you?" Bryce Banhart's smile turned cold, certain. "These are no common ghouls—not the red-brown vermin you've seen before. These dwell at the summit and wear white fur."

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  "And?" Henris paused—among islanders, white carried ill omens. "If it's only the color of their coats, that's no great trouble, good sir. If anything, white fur will make them easier to spot. We gain the advantage."

  Bryce Banhart had already won this round. "You're not wrong, my lord—only, you've made it too simple." He glanced at the prince, who seemed ready to object, and continued: "The snow ghouls' fur is white because Kulen's high elevations lie under snow year-round. Great blankets of snow serve as their natural shield."

  "Even so, they shouldn't be active anywhere near our line of march. Unless I'm mistaken, you said we'd be traversing the mountain's waist."

  "Just so." Bryce remained at ease in the face of skepticism. "Then tell me, my lords—why do you suppose Bellita's fishermen sometimes cast their nets so far they're nosing about near your Seven Seas Kingdoms?"

  Wally Laren Ctiton thought for a moment. "The summit lacks food."

  The old fisherman raised a finger. "Exactly—though that's only one reason. The snow ghouls now hunt more frequently than usual because they're preparing to hibernate. Winter on Kulen Mountain is even harsher. I once saw a snow ghoul so gorged it looked like a pregnant woman. Fortunately, in the end, it died."

  "You killed it?" the prince asked.

  "No. It burst."

  "So let me lay out two key points." Bryce sensed their growing trust and continued to peddle the knowledge he'd stolen from the real Old Fisher. "First: if anyone—man or horse—dies on the way, burn the body immediately. Not a moment's delay. A hungry ghoul downwind can pick up the scent of blood or rot from ten miles away. Don't bury them either—a few feet of earth won't mask the stench of death. This is the single most important rule of the journey. You must observe it."

  "Of course." Prince Wally gave his word.

  "Second: bring ample firewood. We must ensure large, bright campfires every single night on that mountain. Concealment is not our best option—ghouls hunt by scent in the darkness. We use fire to warn them: we are here, and we are many. They may not fear men, but they fear flame."

  "Understood."

  "Lastly, the layout of camp. Remember this: the distance between one tent and the next must be great—no less than six hundred feet."

  "That I cannot accept." Henris Weber Ian interrupted. "Tight formations provide better defense against enemies. Even in a fleet, beyond necessary maneuvering space, every foot of separation weakens tactical cohesion. On land, even more so."

  "I don't deny it—under ordinary circumstances, you'd be right. But we're not facing ordinary circumstances. We don't need to fight the ghouls; we need to run—while they're still tearing through the previous camp."

  "Run!?"

  "Exactly, Highness. Run. Fighting those things offers poor odds. I know our numbers aren't small, but you must understand—when they come charging down the mountain, it's like an avalanche."

  "How many are there?"

  "Count them by the hundred."

  "Very well." The prince began to regret choosing such a perilous mountain route, regret using Spiral Whale Bone to build his ships, regret even setting sail on this eastern campaign. "We'll do it your way, Old Fisher. You must ensure our... safety."

  "Of course." Bryce nodded solemnly. "That is my duty, Highness."

  "When should we set out?" Henris asked.

  "Tonight."

  He was startled. "We're climbing the mountain at night?"

  "More precisely, near dawn. That way we avoid the ghouls' hunting hours and still honor your 'time above all' principle. My lords, you should begin preparations now."

  "One more thing." Wally called after him. "When you traveled with the caravans before, did you bring women?"

  "Women?" (What's this fool getting at?) Bryce Banhart had nearly forgotten about the princess consort. "No, Highness." He wanted to say women would be a burden, but instinct held his tongue. "Er... I only wish to know—if we bring women, what should we watch for?"

  (Try not to spill your seed, you rutting maggot.) "Women are no different from men—both are human. Whatever we must watch for, they must watch for the same. Only," he added with a mocking edge, "were it me, I'd give each of them a horse and a short blade. At the first sign of trouble, I'd send the horse galloping."