“Bat and I could bring the swords,” Ux offered. “Jason’s and Corinne’s. Even sheathed they would draw interest. They look too fine. Unsheathed they would immediately give you away. We’ll swim them in.”

“What about my armor?” Aram asked. “My sword?”

“Your sword would drag us straight to the bottom,” Bat said.

“We could use it to anchor a ship,” Ux grunted.

“I could pose as a wealthy merchant,” Drake offered. “Well fed, well dressed, a debonair peddler of oversized weaponry.”

Farfalee laughed derisively. “Why not portray a wealthy noble on a pilgrimage? We could supply you with riches and hire servants. Our weapons could be disguised in your armory.”

“Don’t give me ideas,” Drake warned, eyes flashing with relish.

Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that they were making this harder than it needed to be. “Do we have to take everything into the city?” he asked. “I mean, we’re only going there to steal a ship and leave. What if we reunited on the water?”

Farfalee nodded pensively. “We would have to get hold of a smaller craft outside the city and rendezvous beyond the harbor mouth.”

“There are many options,” Bat said. “Finding a small craft would not be difficult.”

“What if Farfalee, Corinne, and one of the drinlings met us on the water?” Jasher proposed. “They could bring Aram’s gear, the torivorian swords, and the orantium. We shouldn’t need the globes for our hijacking. Success will depend on slipping away quietly.”

“I would prefer to help cover the hijacking with my bow,” Farfalee said.

“That would be ideal,” Jasher said. “It might not be wise. You and Corinne are too attractive. You’ll stand out more than the rest of us going into the city. With a tireless drinling on the oars, a rendezvous at sea might be a reasonable solution.”

“We will need to know how to meet,” Farfalee said.

“I can still swim into the city,” Ux offered. “Then I can swim out with the details. Bat could stay with you. Then the two of us can help you manage your boat.”

Farfalee sighed. “My bow could be useful inside the city, but I admit that this alternative would reduce the overall risk.”

“I’ll stay close to Jason,” Jasher promised. “Aram and Drake can make their way into the city separately.”

“So no servants for me?” Drake verified. “Not even one? Maybe an older fellow? Or a kid?”

“Maybe next time,” Jasher consoled. “For the present, we need to locate some apparel.”

“I’ll go,” Aram offered. “When I’m small, I’m the least conspicuous of us.”

“I’ll follow him,” Drake said. “The rest of you lie low and try to stay out of trouble.”

* * *

The following morning Jason trudged toward the western gate. He wore coarse, itchy trousers and a long shirt with laces over the chest. His dingy old boots had hard soles and were falling apart. Six copper drooma clinked in one pocket.

He followed a wagon and a group of people on foot. The wagon kicked up dust, which he did not try to avoid, since he knew that whatever clung to him would improve his disguise.

Aram had cautioned him to enter the city as part of a group. The crowd would pressure the guardsmen to hurry and be less thorough.

Jason did his best not to glance back at Jasher, who trailed him by a few hundred yards. Jasher was unarmed except for a knife. The seedman toted several pots and pans, as if he meant to sell them. His hair had been shortened to barely reach his shoulders, and he wore a flat twilled cap.

The port wall loomed ever closer. Uniformed guards patrolled the top, coming in and out of view among the battlements. The others on the road paid little heed to Jason.

At last the wagon slowed and then stopped in the shadow of the open gates. A bespectacled man in a raised booth watched the proceedings with a narrow gaze, quill in hand, parchment ready. Jason counted five soldiers on the ground.

The man in the wagon began shouting answers about his cargo to the man with the quill. A pair of guardsmen searched his wagon, looking underneath and examining the bales and barrels in the bed.

None of the people on foot were allowed to proceed without questioning. A line formed as the quantity of people seeking admittance outnumbered the guards. Jason felt nervous as he took his place in line. He struggled to keep his expression neutral. He avoided eye contact with the guards but tried not to deliberately look away from them either.

The wagon was waved through, freeing up a couple of the guards. The line began to move faster. A husky man with a thick mustache and stubbly jowls confronted Jason. “Name?”

“Lucas, son of Travis.”

“State your business.”

“I have to find Gulleg the barber. I have a bad tooth.”

The guard grunted and squinted. “You’re not familiar. Where are you from?”

“I’m up from Laga.”

“Laga? Quite a trip.”

Jason rubbed the side of his jaw. “A man back home tried to help but made it worse. I was told Gulleg is the best. I’ve been walking two days straight. Can’t sleep with the pain.”

“Duration of your stay?”

“I’m hoping Gulleg can see me today.”

The guard harrumphed softly. “You were told right. Gulleg is good with teeth. Took care of my brother last year. Hope you brought money.”

“Six drooma,” Jason said, jangling his pocket proudly.

“Six?” the guard snickered. “Gulleg is no country barber. But he does have a soft spot for the downtrodden. He might find a way for you to sweat off the difference. You keep out of trouble. And keep off the streets. We don’t tolerate vagrants.”

The hefty guard moved away, his attention shifting to a lanky man with a handcart. Jason strolled past the gate, praying that he looked less conspicuous than he felt. The exchange had gone as planned, right down to him not having quite enough money.

Jason was not supposed to wait for Jasher. The seedman would follow as he chose. The next step was to find the Salt Sea Inn, a small establishment about ten buildings inland from the waterfront, on a road called Galley Street. The port of Durna alone had more structures and businesses than many of the towns Jason had seen in Lyrian.

The main road leading away from the gate was broad and busy. Up ahead a pair of mounted soldiers was squabbling with a man, insisting he move his wagon. The teamster kept maintaining that he needed to unload supplies.