Spratling, despite finding himself sidelined in all of this discussion, felt his body tingle with the possibilities. It was an incredible idea, a scheme bold and righteous enough that they had to attempt it. But there was a flaw in it. “Somebody has to light that spark,” he said. “However, that one will not make it off the platform alive.”

Dovian looked annoyed that he had brought this up, but the others stopped to consider it. Geena suggested a fuse to delay the explosion. They could shoot a flaming arrow, a young raider put forward. Another proposed catapulting another “pill” over the walls. But all these ideas were flawed enough that they had to be rejected. Long fuses were unreliable. They might burn out themselves or be discovered as they sizzled and crackled slowly forward. If a guard came across such as that, he could squash their plans with the toe of his boot, just like that. An arrow or catapulted pill-even if they found the layout conducive to such an attack-would still mean an immediate explosion that might well take the entire crew with it. No, to survive they had to be well away. One of them had to light the pitch from up close and make sure it was going to blow. It was too harebrained a plan otherwise, too likely to fail.

“Well, how about this, then,” Dovian said. “When we get to the platform, we’ll draw lots to see who goes in. Each of us that crews the Ballan will draw. If you aren’t willing to be the one, then don’t go. Step out right now. Each of us that sails will draw, and the one with the mark will go. It may seem a strange thing to decide by chance, but we’ll plan to lose only one. That one’ll be taking more than a few leaguers with him.”

A week later the Ballan sailed north with a lean crew. They rounded the big island of Thrain and threaded the needle between the volcanic buttes know as the Thousands. They waited two days in a hidden cove at the western edge of the islands and sailed into the open ocean on the morning of the third. The winds were not ideal for the crossing, but the currents favored them. They swept up to the north and veered west. For the better part of one morning a massive school of dolphins escorted them, stretching off to either side as far as the eye could see, hundreds of bodies darting out of the water again and again, up and out and in, up and out and in. Nineas said it was a fair sign, as dolphins were roguish buggers and could tell that the raiders were about to get up to some major mischief.

Finding the atoll Dovian remembered proved difficult. They searched for it for two full days without luck and had all but decided to do without it. The next day, however, dawned with a tiny bunching of palms on the horizon. They sailed for it and spent the afternoon talking things over one final time, standing about in shady patches on the beach, drinking coconut milk mixed liberally with sugar, a bit of water, and a splash of alcohol. Not much, mind. Enough to keep up spirits but little enough that the effects of it burned away late in the afternoon, when they got back to physical work.

They drew in all their regular sails and replaced them with blue-black sailcloth. They painted the sides of Ballan a dirtlike color, took the shine off any fixtures, hung cloth over the few glass windows. Casting off, they chased the sun as it sank into the sea, and then they carried on afterward into a black night. Dovian’s voice rose out of the silence, steadying them on. He did not speak grandly or give intricate instructions. He just mentioned mundane matters, recalled adventures past, commented on things he had noted about individual crew members and felt inclined to share with them. So the hours passed.

“Lights ahead!” the sailor in the crow’s nest called down.

A moment later Spratling clung at the edge of the small platform, having scaled the pole at full speed. He wrapped himself close against the young sailor. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a city,” the sailor said, “a big city, like Bocoum.” He was quiet a moment. “No, bigger. Like Alecia.”

Even that was an understatement. It wasn’t just the number of lights, Spratling thought. It was the way they dotted the dark horizon for what must have been miles. It was hard to put scale to it yet, but for all the world he could not shake loose the feeling that he was looking at the shoreline of a great landmass. He remained aloft as Dovian ordered first one sail and then another drawn in. When the oars were called for, however, he climbed down and spoke in whispers to the men. He helped them get the oars out silently and fitted them into oarlocks padded for this purpose. He pulled one himself for a while, timing the movement to the slow rhythm Nineas called out, low and steady, like the beating heart of the ship, meant more to be felt than heard.

Later, Spratling stood next to Dovian, watching the monstrosity slide along beside them, trying to grasp the hugeness of it, to quantify its dimensions into finite terms. There was no obvious sign that the structure floated upon the waves at all. It looked as solid as if the entire thing was made of stone, as if its foundation stretched through the fathoms and anchored right to the seafloor. Its flat, featureless walls rose a hundred feet above the swells. Only there did the geometry break into balconies and terraces, towers and glowing windows. It could house…how many? a half million souls? a million? or more? It felt like a thousand pairs of eyes should be looking down upon them. They rowed along beside a monster, hushed both by stealth and awe.

They watched as they rounded the southern edge of the platforms. A large, rectangular complex sat off at a distance. It was a darker shape against the night, a geometry as of black obsidian, lit only by dim beacons at each corner. A floating pier a quarter mile long linked it to the main structure. It was as wide and even as the greatest highways in the realm, undulating slightly with a motion that, for an instant, conjured images of deep-sea leviathans.

“Tell the crew to get the small boat ready,” Dovian said. “When we get close enough, get it into the water. Give Clytus and Wren the key. Let them check the lock.”

“Clytus and Wren?”

“And six others to row for them, all well armed. They can handle it. You know that. Once you’ve sent them, come back to me. I want you here beside me to hear what I have to say.”

“We’ll need to draw the lots,” Spratling said.

“Do as I said. And then come back to me here.”

Spratling did so. He was back a few moments later, the sack of marked woodchips clenched in his fist. He looked toward the warehouses and watched the silhouette of the small boat row the distance to the pier and disappear into shadow. A few moments later he thought he saw figures moving on the pier, but they were gone in an instant. From then on, the moments stretched out, tense and nerve-racking.

From the Ballan they could only guess at what Clytus and Wren were doing based on what the pilot had told them. “There will be a few guards on the gate,” the man had claimed, “but if you’re stealthy at all you’ll catch them unawares.” He explained that the platforms had never been seriously attacked in all their years of existence. The league considered their distance from land to be a sufficient protection in and of itself. Add to that natural boundary the enormity of their walls and the reputation for vengeance of the Ishtat Inspectorate. Beyond this, the peculiarity of the keys and the fact that only the most trusted among them ever earned them and that loyalty among the sires was supposed to be complete: all these things made them confident that they were secure. The guards were a cursory measure and they knew it. “If you’re lucky you’ll find them napping.”

Spratling had been unsure if he should trust the man. He might be leading them into a trap. But once the pilot grew accustomed to his role as traitor he became incredibly forthcoming. He grew so cooperative that Nineas muttered, “I think the man fancies himself a raider now.” Indeed, he seemed to anticipate all the questions they would have and tried to answer them before he was asked.