"We're at a bit of a loss when it comes to the particulars of making their acquaintance,"added Jean.

"In this, as in so much, I'm well ahead of you," said Stragos. "You should have no trouble making the acquaintance of the Ghostwind pirates because you yourselves will become perfectly respectable pirates. Captain and first mate of a pirate sloop, as a matter of fact."

"You are beyond mad," said Locke after several moments of silent, furious thought. "Full-on barking madness is a state of rational bliss to which you may not aspire. Men living in gutters and drinking their own piss would shun your company. You are a prancing lunatic."

"That's not the sort of thing I'd expect to hear from a man who genuinely wants his antidote."

"Well, what a magnificent choice you" ve given us… death by slow poison or death by insane misadventure!"

"Come now," said Stragos. "That's also not the sort of thing I'd expect to hear from a man with your proven ability for slipping out of extremely complicated situations."

"I'm getting a bit annoyed," said Locke, "with those who praise our previous escapades as an excuse for forcing us into even riskier ones. Look, if you want us to run a job, give us one within our field of experience. Isn't it broad enough for you? All we're saying is that we don't know the first bloody thing about wind, weather, ships, pirates, the Sea of Brass, the Ghostwind Isles, sails, ropes, er… weather, ships—"

"Our sole experience with ships," said Jean, "consists of getting on, getting seasick and getting off."

"I" ve thought of that," said Stragos. "The captain of a criminal crew must have, above all other things, charisma. Leadership skills. A sense of decision. Rogues must be ruled. I believe you can do that, Lamora… by faking it, if necessary. That makes you the best possible choice in some respects. You can fake confidence when a sincere man might be inclined to panic. And your friend Jean can enforce your leadership; a good infighter is someone to be respected on a ship."

"Sure, great," said Locke. "I'm charming, Jean's tough. That just leaves all the other things I named—"

"As for the nautical arts, I will provide you with an experienced sailing master. A man who can train you in the essentials and make the proper decisions for you once you're at sea, all the while pretending the orders come from you. Don't you see? All I'm doing is asking you to play a role… he'll provide the knowledge to make that role convincing."

"Sweet Venaportha," said Locke. "You really intend for us to go out there, and you genuinely wish us to succeed?" "Absolutely," said Stragos.

"And the poison," said Jean, "you'll just put enough antidote in our hands to allow us to roam the Sea of Brass, as we will?"

"Hardly. You'll need to call at Tal Verrar once every two months. My alchemist tells me that sixty-two to sixty-five days is really as far as you should push it."

"Now wait just a damn minute," said Locke. "It's not enough that we'll be clueless sailors masquerading as hardened pirates, trusting another man to make us look competent. Or that we're going to be out risking gods know what at sea, with our plans for Requin postponed. Now you expect us to be tied to mother's apron strings every two months?"

"It's two or three weeks to the Ghostwinds, and the same time back. You'll have ample time to do your business each trip, for however many months it takes. How closely you wish to shave your schedule is, of course, your own concern. Surely you see that it has to be this way" "No." Locke laughed. "Frankly, I don't!"

"I'll want progress reports. I may have new orders and information for you. You may have new requests or suggestions. It makes a great deal of sense to stay in regular contact."

"And what if we chance across one of those patches of… damn, Jean, what are they called? No wind whatsoever?" "Doldrums," said Jean.

"Exactly," said Locke. "Even we know that you can't presume a constant speed with wind and sails; you get what the gods send you. We could be stuck on a flat ocean fifty miles from Tal Verrar, on day sixty-three, dying for no reason at all."

"Remotely possible, but unlikely. I'm well aware that there's a great element of risk in the task I'm handing you; the possibility of a vast return compels me to play the odds. Now… speak no more of this for the time being. Here's what I" ve brought you out to see."

There was a golden ripple on the black water ahead, and faint golden lines that seemed to sway in the air above it. As they drew closer, Locke saw that a wide, dark shape covered the artificial river completely, from one bank to the other — a building of some sort… and the golden lines appeared to be cracks in curtains that hung down to the water. The boat reached this barrier and pushed through with little trouble; Locke shoved heavy, damp canvas away from his face, and as it fell aside the boat burst into broad daylight.

They were inside a walled and roofed garden, at least forty feet high, filled with willow, witchwood, olive, citrus and amberthorn trees. Black, brown and grey trunks stood in close-packed ranks, their vine-tangled branches reaching up in vast constellations of bright leaves that entwined above the river like a second roof.

As for the actual roof, it was scintillant, sky-blue and bright as noon, with wisps of white clouds drifting past half-visible between the branches. The sun burned painfully bright on Locke's right as he turned around to stare straight ahead, and it sent rays of golden light down through the silhouetted leaves… though surely it was still the middle of the night outside. "This is alchemy, or sorcery, or both," said Jean.

"Some alchemy," said Stragos in a soft, enthusiastic voice. "The ceiling is glass, the clouds are smoke, the sun is a burning vessel of alchemical oils and mirrors."

"Bright enough to keep this forest alive under a roof? Damn," said Locke.

"It may indeed be bright enough, Lamora," said the Archon, "but if you'll look closely, you'll see that nothing under this roof besides ourselves is alive?

As Locke and Jean glanced around in disbelief, Stragos steered the boat up against one of the garden's riverbanks. The waterway narrowed there to a mere ten feet, to allow room for the trees and vines and bushes on either side. Stragos reached out to grasp a trunk and halt the boat, and he pointed into the air as he spoke.

"A clockwork garden for my clockwork river. There's not a real plant in here. It's wood and clay and wire and silk; paint and dye and alchemy. All of it engineered to my design; it took the artificers and their assistants six years to construct it all. My little glen of mechanisms."

Incredulously, Locke realized that the Archon was telling the truth. Other than the movement of white smoke clouds far overhead, the place was unnaturally still, almost eerie. And the air in the enclosed garden was inert, smelling of stale water and canvas. It should have been bursting with forest scents, with the rich odours of dirt and flowering and decay.

"Do I still strike you as a man farting in an enclosed room, Lamora? In here, I do command the wind…"

Stragos raised his right arm high above his head and a rustling noise filled the artificial garden. A current of air plucked at Locke's scalp, and steadily rose until there was a firm breeze against his face. The leaves and branches around them swayed gently.

"And the rain," cried Stragos. His voice echoed off the water and was lost in the depths of the suddenly Uvely forest. A moment later a faint, warm mist began to descend, a ticklish haze of water that swirled in ghostly curves throughout the imaginary greenery and enveloped their boat. Then drops began to fall with a soft pitter-patter, rippling the surface of the clockwork river. Locke and Jean huddled beneath their coats as Stragos laughed.