The three red sails reappeared upon an unnaturally clear afternoon.
At this latitude in the northern seas, fair weather was rarer than a storm. That afternoon, the clouds opened along one seam and the sunlight shone white and cold. The lookout had scarcely finished reporting "good sea conditions" when his pitch changed. Ahead to starboard, three dark-red points stood in one line across the Evening Bell's course.
They were neither pursuing nor fleeing. They were waiting.
"Holding in the current." The chief mate narrowed his eyes and judged the situation. "Sails set, anchor up, bow into the flow—old hands. They've taken their station expressly to wait for us to come and speak."
Sharlo watched through the telescope for a long time. The Floating Island Theatre's three linked ships looked somewhat more worn than at Gern Harbour. Patches showed in their dark-red paint. Yet the flying eaves above the stage on the middle vessel still swept high, and two strings of grey lanterns burned beneath them in full daylight, shedding grey light.
"Pip." He passed over the telescope. "You have a poisonous eye. Read the draught of those ships."
Pip needed only one breath.
"Heavier," he said. "Two feet deeper than at Gern Harbour. His holds are full—everything he collected at sea this season is aboard." He paused, and his voice sank. "Mine as well."
"No one moves." Sharlo lowered the telescope. "He has laid out a table for bargaining. We will go and hear his price."
The two vessels ran parallel half a mile apart.
Upon the Floating Island Theatre's principal ship, the stage faced the Evening Bell. Mr. Bassoon sat precisely at its centre, a grand armchair behind him and a little tea table before him, his plump body sunk into the seat as though he were in his own counting room. When the Evening Bell approached, he rose and offered a broad clasped-hands salute across the water.
"Mr. Vane!" Some stagecraft carried his voice distinctly across the half mile. "I trust you have been well. This old man heard what happened at White Strand Island—one island entered upon the charts, one captain returned home. I drink to you." He truly raised his teacup in distant salute and emptied it.
"Mr. Bassoon." Sharlo stood beside the rail, his own voice carrying across. "Spare us the overture. You waited here because you have business to propose."
"Direct. Excellent." Bassoon set down his cup, the smile upon his fat face not shifting by a hair. "Then this old man will come directly to the point. The first transaction—"
He raised one hand. Manager Vaal emerged from the side of the stage bearing something and held it high: a glass box the size of his palm, with a knot of light inside. The light was exceedingly small and dim, curled into itself like a thin fledgling hibernating through winter.
Pip's whole body convulsed aboard the Evening Bell, and he lunged one step to the rail.
Across half a mile of water, the knot of light seemed to sense something. It gave the faintest tremor inside the glass box.
"Young Master Magpie, I trust you have been well." Bassoon spoke with leisurely care. "Your old possession is on deposit with me. Eleven years, and its condition has been maintained beautifully. A heart that misses home grows more fragrant with age. Those of us in this trade know best how to nourish it."
"Redeem upon presentation of the ticket!" Pip rasped, one hand already inside his coat. "I hold the ticket—Wen Nine gave it to me, black upon white!"
"The ticket, this old man recognises." Bassoon nodded with absolute sincerity. "The counter's regulations say redemption upon presentation. Perfectly right. But after eleven years in the trade, young sir, you hardly need me to teach you the second half of the rule governing redemption—"
"A ticket, and the redemption price."
"Name your price," Sharlo said.
"Very well." Mr. Bassoon rubbed his plump hands, his eyes narrowing to two seams. "I want no gold crowns and no silver candles. My counter receives only one thing—"
He raised his hand and, across half a mile of water, pointed towards the space above Sharlo's head.
"Those five words of yours."
Sea wind crossed the water between the ships. The Evening Bell went deathly still.
"【He wants to go home.】" Mr. Bassoon read the words slowly, like the inventory description of the treasure behind his counter. "A unique article. The only one under heaven. This old man saw it first in Kandelburg and has thought of it ever since. Mr. Vane, plain men speak plainly. You know the deficit in my accounts this season. One hundred portions of ordinary homesickness will not bring the Central Counter's scales level. But this one of yours—one article is worth a hundred."
"Your 'missing home' for his 'missing home.'" The fat shopkeeper spread his hands. "One for one, a fair trade. You saved his person. Add this one article and complete the favour. Is not the name of Mr. Curtainbreaker built upon honouring friendship and feeling?"
Sharlo stood beside the rail for a long time without speaking.
Pip swung towards him. "Don't trade!" The young man's voice split. "Consultant, that is yours—mine has been empty eleven years. It can stay empty—"
"Pip." Sharlo pressed one hand upon his shoulder. He did not look at him. His gaze remained upon the fat face half a mile away. Then he smiled.
"Mr. Bassoon, your price is wrong in two places." He spoke without haste. "First, you cannot take it. Have you forgotten our counting-room conversation two years ago? Every one of my possessions is joined by sinew. None can be put upon the scales. If you truly could take this one, you would have acted that night in Kandelburg. Why wait until today to set a table and bargain?"
"Second—" He paused. "You have no desire to receive those five words. What you want is my consent."
Upon the stage, Mr. Bassoon's smile stiffened for the first time.
"There is only one way to put an unweighable thing upon the scales: its owner must volunteer it." Sharlo sent each word across the water. "You need me to say 'trade' aloud. Once I do, those five words become 'goods offered for transfer,' and a seam opens. A fine calculation. Use one old knot of light held on deposit to bait the Curtainbreaker into opening the seam of his own accord. Mr. Bassoon, your beginnings as a broker show. No one is more accomplished at making a leading player walk onto the stage himself."
"A pity," he said. "This leading player performs only scripts he writes himself."
Half a mile away, the fat shopkeeper was silent for a long time. Then he suddenly laughed aloud, his shoulders shaking, and clapped three times.
"Good. A good eye." He settled back into the grand armchair. Beneath the smile upon his fat face, something genuine appeared for the first time—weariness, and ruthlessness. "Then this old man will overturn the table and speak plainly. Mr. Vane, Settlement Day is near, and my scales are short one hundred and three portions of goods. One portion short costs this old man one layer of skin. One hundred short, and not even the fact that I 'once existed' will remain. I shall not speak to you of honour or feeling. I shall speak of survival."
"If I cannot obtain this article in trade, I must change the manner of collection."
He raised one hand. Manager Vaal put away the glass box and brought out a tray bearing one sheet of grey paper.
"If this old man comes to the scales empty-handed on Settlement Day, he dies," Mr. Bassoon said slowly. "But if I can lead the Central Counter's scales to weigh something heavier than a hundred portions of harvest—merit may offset fault, and perhaps this old man will be allowed to remain whole. Can you guess what I reported to the Central Counter?"
Manager Vaal nailed the grey sheet to one pillar of the stage.
Across half a mile of water, the lettering on the playbill resolved line by line inside Sharlo's telescope.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
"Final Curtain Season · Second Production
Dreamless Sleep
Produced by the Floating Island Theatre
Leading Player: Viola Raven"
Not Awaiting Its Star. Not Casting in Progress. A name fixed in black upon white.
The blood in Sharlo's body chilled from crown to sole. Beside him, Viola stood perfectly motionless, looking at the playbill nailed to the pillar with her name printed upon it. Her face revealed nothing. Only she knew that the hand inside her sleeve had pressed fingermarks into the cover of her register.
"This old man has studied the medical file for two years. The quality of that sleep debt is unparalleled under heaven—six years' debt of sleeplessness, followed by one descent into sleep. That one 'sleep' outweighs ten thousand portions of homesickness." Mr. Bassoon's voice dried until it almost merged with the Stage Announcer's cadence. "The script has been reviewed by the Central Counter. Its four-word note reads: Approved for performance. Awaiting entrance."
"Mr. Vane, this is my second transaction, and my last—"
"Those five words of yours for this playbill." The fat shopkeeper pronounced each word separately. "Give your consent, and Dreamless Sleep is withdrawn. This old man takes your unique article to settlement, and Agent Raven's name is struck forever from Final Curtain Season's programme board. Refuse—"
"On Settlement Day, at the city gate, this old man's stage will be raised as promised." He leaned back against his chair. "Which production is sung then will no longer be mine to decide."
"You have three days. Three days from now, this old man awaits you at the high-tide settlement ground. Bring your answer."
The three dark-red ships shifted sail and went north. The light of their grey lanterns swayed in the cold-white sun like three sores that would not close.
No one spoke upon the Evening Bell's deck for a long time.
Viola was the first. She withdrew her gaze from the north, opened her register, and began to speak as she wrote, in her customary regulatory calm.
"Record. Final Curtain Season, Second Production, Dreamless Sleep. Leading player: Raven. Finding: premeditated abduction, interested party present and aware. Further entry: as to the terms proposed by Bassoon, the interested party states expressly—"
She raised her head, looked at Sharlo, and spoke one word at a time.
"No trade."
"Viola—"
"If you dare make that trade," she said, her pen halted upon the page and her eyes fixed directly upon him, "I will strike your promise—'When we reach the black river, I shall read your family's names with you'—from the account."
"The Curtainbreaker keeps the books and never shirks a debt. You made that rule yourself." She closed the register. "If you mean to default, you must first pass this entry of mine."
That night, the council of war in the chart room continued deep into the small hours.
"First, take inventory of what he gave us." Sharlo wrote three things upon a sheet. "First, the time: three days. Second, the place: the high-tide settlement ground, at the city gate. Third, and most valuable—"
"His desperation."
"One hundred and three portions short upon the scales, one layer of skin for each. His own words." Sharlo looked around the room. "Two years ago in Kandelburg, he was a composed hunter baiting us into the trap. The gentleman on that stage today is a gambler at his final throw—staking other people's lives to preserve his own skin. An enemy in desperation is easier to fight than a powerful enemy. He has no move in reserve. Every step lies faceup."
"He wagers that three days from now, we will obediently present ourselves and answer." Sharlo pressed one finger upon the whirlpool mark on the chart. "We will not go to answer."
"We will go to overturn the scales."
"How?" Mick asked. "Their ground, their scales, and people from the Central Counter presiding—"
"Overturn the procedure."
It was Pip who spoke. He had sat in the corner throughout. Now he rose and went to the chart.
"I delivered goods for three years. I can recite the settlement procedure backwards," he said. "On the day of the high tide, receiving vessels queue to enter the ground. Goods are announced, inspected, weighed, and placed into storage—not in a ship's hold, but 'inside the door.' The door opens at one hour only: lowest tide. When the tide has ebbed to its bottom, the door appears. One incense stick. Then the tide returns and the door closes. Every item must pass the scales within that one incense stick."
"One incense stick." Sharlo's eyes brightened. "The busiest and most chaotic interval, while every eye in the ground watches the scales."
"Yes." Pip nodded. Something began to burn within those great, empty-bright eyes. "And I possess a perfectly lawful capacity in which to enter—"
He took the yellow ticket, folded into thirds, from inside his coat.
"Redeem upon presentation," he said. "Under the counter's regulations, a pledge is redeemed by ticket, not by person. On Settlement Day, the Debt-Collection Office must attend to supervise the scales. If I present my ticket before the Comptroller, does Bassoon dare refuse it? Does he dare violate the Central Counter's own regulations in its presence?"
"I enter the ground. You remain outside." Pip looked around the room. "We work from within and without."
"No!" Cole shot to his feet. "We only just pulled you out of their hands! To send you back—"
"Cole." Pip looked at him and abruptly smiled. It was no longer the dry wrenching of his mouth from before. "I enter openly. I have a ticket, regulations, and the Comptroller supervising the scales. This time, I go to their door as a customer bearing their rules. Nothing values rules more than the Central Counter. Those rules are my armour."
"Besides." He paused, and his voice fell. "My possession is aboard his ship. Of every transaction under heaven, this is the one I must conduct with my own hands."
The chart room remained quiet for a long time. Sharlo studied Pip for just as long before nodding.
"Approved," he said. "But change one phrase. Not within and without. We advance upon three roads. Pip's open appearance is the first. The second: the settlement ground stands at the city gate. That city is the one upon old Vane's chart. We may know no less about it than the Dirge Society does. The third road—"
He looked towards Viola.
"Your name is printed upon their playbill. Then we will let them see you." Sharlo spoke slowly. "See you clearly—standing outside the ground, awake, eyes open, keeping the accounts of everyone present. Let the writer understand that his leading player is recording his production, entry by entry, inside another book."
"What does a player fear most?" he said. "One connoisseur in the house, holding a pen."
After the meeting dispersed, deep in the latter half of the night, Sharlo found Viola upon deck.
She occupied her old place upon a mooring bitt at the stern and finished the day's last page by the stern lamp. Sharlo sat beside her, and for a while they listened to the waves without speaking.
"I spoke too harshly during the day," Viola said suddenly, her gaze still upon the register. "If you truly wished to trade, it would not be my place to stop you. Those five words belong to you."
"You weren't too harsh," Sharlo said. "You were right. He does not want the five words. He wants the seam I open. Once it opens, everything after them can be collected. That bargain could never be accepted."
"Mm." Viola closed the register. After a moment, she spoke again, more softly than usual. "Sharlo. There is one thing I wish entered in your account before Settlement Day arrives."
"Tell me."
"I am not afraid to sleep." She spoke slowly and distinctly. "It has been six years. I calculate the sleep debt more accurately than the Medical Office does—it must be settled sooner or later. I cannot escape the sleep that settles it, and I have no intention of trying."
"I have only ever feared one thing: sleeping upon their stage and singing in their production." She turned to him. Her eyes shone with tranquil light beneath the stern lamp. "So remember. If that day truly comes—I will settle my debt, but I will settle it in a place and at an hour I choose, sleeping upon my own name. I will not wear their costume."
"When that day comes, your duty will not be to prevent me sleeping," she said. "It will be to guard my name. Do not let them change my play."
Sharlo looked at her. The words "I will never let that day come" rose to his throat, then he swallowed them. Those were not the words she had asked of him.
"Entered," he said at last. "E.F. left a sentence upon the back of a ticket: when you have repaid that debt and the night comes when you wish to sleep, tell it to the right person. Tell one, add one."
"Your 'right people' now fill one ship," he said. "When that day comes, we will listen one by one, standing in a queue."
Viola did not speak. She opened her register again, turned to its final page, and lightly drew one small mark beside a certain line. Sharlo did not look to see what it was.
Upon the northern horizon, deep among the clouds, a faint radiance like aurora flowed in and out of sight. Somewhere, the high tide three days hence was slowly gathering itself.
The following day, assignments went out along every road.
Half-Ladle inventoried all food and fresh water aboard and prepared emergency ration packets for the worst case: "inside for one incense stick, unable to emerge for three days." Mick retuned his three whistles and established signals for the whole team—one long and two short to gather; three short to scatter; one unbroken long note to run. Cole polished the guiding lamp's globe until it shone transparent, then followed the rules of the Ferry-Ticket Litany to help the Old Boatman replace the wick inside the blue-green glass lamp. One new lamp, one old: one lit the road of the living, one the road of the dead. On Settlement Day, both must burn.
After hearing the complete plan, the Old Boatman made only one request. "When we reach the city gate, let this old man stand nearer that door."
"Three thousand years," the old spirit-ferryman said. "This old man knows the doors upon the river, and he knows doors in the world of the living. But a door that receives homesickness—a door opened neither to the living nor to the dead—after a lifetime carrying passengers, this will be the first door I have seen without knowing where it carries them. I must see it clearly."
"I will take that one look on behalf of three thousand years of the Stillwater Society's accounts."
Casimir asked for his own assignment: reconnaissance.
On the third morning, the navigator opened a door at the bow. He said he had tested it over the past several days. The farther north they went, the more "willing" the doors inside the fog became, as though something were laying the road flat for him. "That is not good, but at present it is convenient." He went through alone, promising to return in one hour.
He came back half an hour late.
Sharlo waited at the bow. A door opened within the fog. Casimir stepped through and pulled it shut behind him. He had performed that chain of movements ten thousand times, but today each was exceedingly slow and light, as though he feared disturbing something beyond the door.
Then he turned around. Sharlo saw his face.
The face of the man who had opened doors for thirty years and looked upon every corner under heaven—that always courteous, always composed face—had not one trace of blood in it now.
"Consultant." Casimir's voice was steady, as steady as a cable drawn to the limit. "I arrived. At the city gate. I looked once."
"I have opened doors for thirty years. I have seen every kind—wooden, iron, made of fog, made of light; doors in walls, doors in water, doors in the mouth of a human heart." He spoke one word at a time. "Today, for the first time, I saw—"
"A door that is no door."