«Kiripao hit him pretty hard,» I replied. «Harder than the kid could take, anyway. I'll carry him.»

«No,» Miriam said, «I will.»

I didn't fight her for the honor – a sopping wet Clueless was not something I really wanted to throw over my shoulder. Miriam, however, was already soaked to the skin, so carrying the kid wouldn't drench her further.

«You grab the boy,» Yasmin nodded to Miriam, «and then let's peel it. Britlin, show Irene the way to the portal.»

«The portal?» I shuddered.

«It's the only way out,» she said. «Hezekiah can't teleport. November can't fly up to us with that broken wing. There are a dozen fires between us and the ground, not to mention the entire tower's going to fall any second. Up to the portal before it all tumbles down!»

The first tank fell as Irene and I were coming to the top of the stairs. It came from a few levels below us, down where the fire had been burning the longest; a huge vat of water and fish breaking through its weakened supports and crashing down onto the next level. The whole tower quaked with the force of the impact – I couldn't see the extent of the damage, but I could hear the cracking of timbers, and feel the sudden bend as the tower pitched out of balance. Only quick reflexes allowed me to grab the stair railing with one hand and Irene with the other.

«Your majesty is most eager,» Irene smiled.

«Sure am,» I muttered under my breath. «This is exactly how I pictured a honeymoon would be.»

As we stepped onto the next catwalk, however, I sighed with relief. I had half-expected to see Rivi waiting for us, brandishing yet another of the Fox's firewands; but the nasty wee albino was nowhere in sight. No doubt she had retreated through the portal as soon as the fire hit the fan.

This level of the tower had less smoke than the one below, but our visibility was still obscured – wisps of steam rose off the tank of dogfish below us, as the fires beneath heated the water. A tank that size would take ages to come to a boil, but already the little sharks were darting about in agitation, thunking desperately against the tank walls. Their fear churned the surface, splashing hot water across the boards of the cat-walk.

«Don't worry,» I assured Irene, «we're almost safe. Just ahead there's a portal that will take us out of here.»

I didn't mention that a homicidal psionicist could be lurking on the other side, waiting to trample our brains. Nor did I mention that Rivi might have more wights with her, or thugs, or a firewand, or other lethal tricks we hadn't seen yet. I thought those were our only concerns… until Irene brought up an issue that had completely slipped my mind.

«And what,» she asked, «is the key to this portal?»

«Key,» I said. «Key. Yes. We need a key.»

The key to this portal was, of course, a picture of oneself. I didn't have such a thing. I doubted my companions would either – they all wore naga-spun clothing, so I had to assume that all their possessions had burned when they entered the Arching Flame. Yasmin's sword must have had enough magic to survive, just as mine did; but everything else was gone, cinders, smoke.

«Sod it all!» I muttered. No paper, nothing to draw with… oh yes, in time the tower would be a plentiful source of charcoal, but by then we'd be charcoal too. Could I use the tip of my rapier to scratch out on image on a chunk of wood? Maybe, if I had a useful chunk of wood; but the Vertical Sea was built of stout beams and planks, and nothing close to hand was thin enough to chop or pry loose.

Think, Britlin, think. How do you make a picture when you can't make a picture?

«Okay,» I told myself. «Other artists do this all the time. Nothing to it.» Turning to Irene, I bowed deeply. «Your pardon, good lady, but I require a swatch of your gown.»

«Ahh,» she said, a gleam in her eye. «You are so bold.» She didn't flinch as I lifted my rapier and sliced out a section of cloth the size of my hand, taken from the bottom front of the dress.

White satin of the finest silk, smeared with unidentifiable smudges of brown and green. Lovely.

«Now, milady, a lock of your hair.»

She lifted an eyebrow, but there was a smile on her face.

By the time the others arrived – Miriam cradling Hezekiah's unconscious body, while Yasmin kept her steady whenever the tower shuddered – I had assembled a somber montage on the catwalk in front of me.

A scrap of stained silk, frayed on the edges.

A few weedy strands of gray hair.

A shred of Irene's veil, covering the hair.

Four thin splinters of wood shaved off the catwalk, lined up side by side on the white cloth; one of the splinters was partly broken halfway down, canted off at an angle.

«Britlin,» Yasmin scowled, «what do you think you're doing?»

«I'm making a portrait of Irene. It's an abstract.»

«Oh.» Yasmin leaned over my shoulder. «It needs a teardrop.»

«I know it needs a teardrop!» I snapped. «Any fool can see it needs a teardrop.» Pause. «Where does it need a teardrop?»

«On the veil,» Yasmin and Miriam said in unison.

«Okay.» I bent over the catwalk and reached down toward the fish-tank.

«What are you doing now?» Yasmin asked.

«I'm going to dip my finger in the vat. Get some water, get a teardrop.»

«That just gives you a water drop, Britlin.» Yasmin sighed. «You're making art – you want to ruin it?»

«Men!» Miriam muttered under her breath.

«Fine!» I said. «Irene, can you produce a teardrop?»

«A sad tear or a happy one?»

I turned to other two women. «Your opinion, ladies?»

Before they could answer, another vat of fish fell off the tower. This one started three stories above us: smashing down to the next lower level, then angling off a slanted beam that tipped the tank sideways and deflected it to the rear of the structure. Several tons of water and confused lobsters streamed past us in a thunderous cataract, followed by the heavy vat itself.

«No point getting picky about the type of tear,» Yasmin said quickly.

«Yeah,» Miriam nodded. «The leatherheaded portal can't tell the difference.»

Like many a bride, Irene had a ready source of tears; happy or sad, I couldn't say. She took almost no time to deposit a lady-like dewdrop on the veil of my collage… and speed was good, considering the ominous creaks now wracking every inch of the tower. The Vertical Sea's lifetime could be measured in minutes, if not seconds, and we fervently hoped to relocate before it collapsed.

I spared a last glance at our comrades down below on the street, and was relieved to see November dragging Wheezle into a nearby alley. She could barely stand, her body doubled over with the pain of her own injuries; yet the look of determination on her face showed she would get the gnome to safety before the tower came crashing down. They were still in serious danger – in the Hive at night, with a price on their heads – but they would not die in an avalanche of lumber and boiled prawn.

Now to make sure we didn't die either. «Irene,» I said, putting the collage carefully into the orc-woman's hands, «you're going to lead us through the portal now. You're holding the key.»

I hoped I was telling her the truth. Yasmin and Miriam might believe a few scraps could substitute as a portrait, but I was far from convinced. Yes, the assemblage suggested a deluded bride – dirty silk, a broken splinter, an ambiguous tear – but was it enough? Would the portal accept a depiction that was at most vaguely evocative? Or did its magic require a clean representation of face, flesh, and bone?

A beam overhead gave a loud crack as flames licked around its girth. «Go ahead, Irene,» I said, swallowing hard. «I'm sure this will work.»

«Of course, your majesty,» she answered with a small curtsy. Showing no doubt at all, she walked toward the dim outline of the portal, the rest of us following behind…