into the distance. For a moment Hakiem hesitated, reluctant to intrude on the
one-armed fisherman’s self-imposed isolation, but then curiosity won out over
discretion and he approached the table.
“May I join you, Omat?”
The fisherman’s eyes came into focus and he blinked with surprise. “Hakiem! What
brings you to the docks? Has the Vulgar Unicorn finally run out of wine?”
The talespinner ignored the gibe and sank down onto one of the vacant stools.
“I’m tracking a story,” he explained earnestly. “A rumor which can only be
fleshed out to audience-satisfying proportions with your assistance.”
“A story?” Omat repeated, his gaze suddenly evasive. “Adventures only happen to
your rich merchants or shadow-hugging cut-throats, not to us simple fisherfolk
-and certainly not to me.”
“So?” Hakiem asked, feigning surprise. “It was some other one-armed fisherman
who this very day told a garrison captain about the disappearance of the Old Man
and his son?”
Omat favored him with a black glare. “I should know better than to expect
secrecy in this town,” he hissed. “Bad news draws curiosity-seekers like the
Prince’s gallows draw ravens. As they say, you can get anything in Sanctuary but
help.”
“Surely the authorities will investigate?” the storyteller asked, though he
already knew the answer.
“Investigate!” the fisherman spat noisily on the floor. “You know what they told
me-these precious authorities of yours? They say the Old Man must have drowned,
he and his son both. They say the Old Man must’ve fallen overboard in a sudden