The dockhand, bereft of his false blessing, stared at the dissolving scraps on the planks, then at Rian, then at Merrow. He let out a soft, defeated moan. "My net-duty…" he whimpered, shoulders slumping as if the very air had been sucked from his lungs. Rian paid him no mind, her gaze fixed on Merrow. "You'll find your own way to earn your bread, fellow," she snapped at the dockhand, her voice like a whip-crack. "Or perhaps you'd prefer a Ministry-assigned 'blessing' for insubordination?" The dockhand's eyes widened, and with a terrified gasp, he stumbled away, vanishing into the gray drizzle. Merrow rubbed the back of his neck, the familiar ache now a dull throb. "Well, that was rather uncharitable, Captain. The man has a family." "And you, Master Quill, have a choice." Rian stepped closer, the salty air thick with her unspoken authority. The brass badge on her chest caught the weak light, a miniature tide-table indicating the ebb and flow of power. "Cease these petty deceptions, or face the full weight of Lyr's ordinances. We have records, Merrow. From your seminary days, even." Merrow snorted, a short, bitter sound. "Hmph. Records. Always records. I suppose the Ministry of Tides has an entire archive dedicated to my youthful indiscretions?" "We have an archive dedicated to anything that threatens the integrity of the sea's covenant with Lyr," she corrected, her voice flat. "And you, with your forged blessings and false oaths, are a persistent irritant. A small leak, but one that could rot the hull if left unchecked." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "However, there are larger leaks. Cracks in the hull, if you will, that require a… less conventional hand." Merrow raised an eyebrow, a flicker of his old cynicism returning. "Oh? And you believe my 'less conventional hand' might be useful to the esteemed Ministry?" He chuckled, a dry, grating sound. "I'm flattered, Captain. But I prefer my clientele to be less… official." "The Ministry has information that suggests a growing trade in illegal sea-charters. Forged documents that allow unregistered vessels to ply Lyr's waters, avoiding tariffs, ignoring fishing limits. Even worse, they're carrying unsanctioned cargo." Rian's voice dropped, barely audible over the *slosh* of the waves against the pier. "We believe these forgeries are of a quality that rivals your own, Merrow. Perhaps even surpass them." Merrow's casual demeanor faltered. His eyes, usually so quick to appraise, grew sharp with genuine interest. "Surpass mine? Impossible. My hand is blessed." He tapped his chest. "Hmmph. Perhaps. But these documents bear a unique watermark. A twisted anchor, entangled with a serpent. Have you seen it?" Merrow's jaw tightened. He had. A few weeks ago, a merchant had shown him a sample, boasting of a new, cheaper route. Merrow had dismissed it as crude amateur work, but the merchant had insisted the papers had passed inspection. "No," he lied, the familiar pressure behind his teeth building. Rian didn't miss a beat. "Don't lie to me, Master Quill. The sea remembers *everything*. We need to find the source of these forgeries. And you, with your… expertise in the field, are uniquely positioned to do so. Consider it your penance. Or your parole." She took another step back, her form silhouetted against the gray sky. "Find them. Or the next time we meet, it won't be a warning." With a final, piercing look that seemed to strip him bare, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing on the wet planks. The sea beneath them gave a low, patient hum, a sound that seemed to mock Merrow's desperate situation. Merrow stood there for a long moment, the spray biting at his face, the salty air tasting suddenly bitter. He watched Rian's severe figure disappear into the labyrinth of crates and canvas. *Penance or parole*, she'd said. It sounded more like a noose with two ends. The twisted anchor with the serpent. He'd seen it, alright. A small, almost imperceptible detail on a bill of lading for a cargo of 'salted fish' that had smelled suspiciously of rare spices. He'd dismissed it then, more focused on the paltry fee he'd extracted for his own, simpler deceptions. Now, the memory clawed at him, a cold knot in his gut. He fished a grimy handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead, though it wasn't sweat, but the damp chill of the harbor. "Aargh," he grumbled to the empty air, kicking a loose pebble. "Forced into honest work. The indignity." But beneath the theatrical complaint, a flicker of something else stirred. Curiosity. Rian was right; his skills *were* unique. He understood the nuances of paper, the subtle language of ink, the psychological trickery that made a lie believable. And if these new forgers were truly good, truly *better* than him… that was a challenge. A dangerous one, but a challenge nonetheless. He started walking, his soft gait now a little more purposeful, though still designed to blend. His usual haunts were the taverns and back-alley card games where information flowed as freely as cheap wine. He needed to find someone who dealt in the greyest of goods, someone who might have handled these new, serpent-marked charters. He found Old Man Kael, hunched over a tankard in the gloom of The Drowned Rat. The tavern reeked of stale ale and unwashed bodies, the air thick with pipe smoke and hushed whispers. Kael was a human barnacle, clinging to the underside of Lyr's legal trade, a purveyor of rumors and small, illicit favors. He looked up as Merrow approached, his one good eye glinting like a shard of broken glass. "Merrow," Kael rasped, his voice a gravelly hum. "Lost your flock, have we? Heard a Ministry crow was circling the piers." He took a slow, deliberate sip from his tankard, watching Merrow over the rim. Merrow slid onto the bench opposite him, the wood sticky beneath his palm. "Crow's still circling, Kael. And her talons are sharp." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "I'm looking for something. Something… new." Kael's eyebrow, a thick gray caterpillar, twitched. "New? You're a man of tradition, Quill. Always the same old blessings, the same old excuses." He chuckled, a dry, wheezing sound that ended in a cough. "What kind of new?" "Paper," Merrow said, tapping the table. "Charters. Documents. Carrying a certain mark." He etched a quick, crude sketch of the twisted anchor and serpent into the condensation on the table. "Seen anything like it?" Kael's good eye narrowed, studying the drawing. He took another long sip, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "That mark," he began, his voice barely a whisper, "that's not for the small-time. That's for the deep waters. And the price… the price is blood."
