By the time Riasean reached the ship, the area was quiet. He could see no one other than the standing watch on deck and Kerch perched on a barrel, smoking a pipe. A travel bag sat next to him.

“Took you long enough. I was about to go to the Hall of Records without you.”

“I had to do some scouting first.”

Kerch held up his hand. “I don’t need to know anything more. Let’s go.” He grabbed his travel bag, pushed off the barrel, tapped out his pipe, and made for the gangplank. Riasean followed along. They crossed the pier and made for a tall building about half a mile into the city. The windows were all dark save one, next to a door. When he tried the door, Kerch found it locked. He banged on it incessantly for almost a minute.

A peephole swung open. “Stop that. Use the night drop.” A slot opened mid-door.

“Open up, Haskins,” Kerch barked. “What I have won’t fit through the slot.”

“That’s what she said,” Haskins chirped back, followed by a cackle of laughter.

“Why you,” Kerch growled. He reached into his travel bag and produced a clear bottle of amber liquid. “See this?” he said, waving it before the peephole.

The eye widened. “That contraband?”

“It’s whisky, ya turd.”

Locks clicked, chains unfastened, and the door swung open. Behind it stood probably the oldest man still breathing Riasean had ever seen. Haskins spidery hand reached for the bottle, but Kerch yanked it back. “Let us in first.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” Haskins said. Despite peering directly at Riasean, he leaned to the left and right.

Riasean looked over his shoulder, but no one was there. He turned back around. Kerch smacked his chest with the back of his hand, causing him to cough.

“Oh,” Haskins exclaimed, suddenly focusing on Riasean. “What ya hiding for?” He wagged a bony finger at Kerch. “You know I ain’t supposed to let anyone in after dark.” Kerch produced a gold coin. “Then again, it’ll be daylight in eight or nine hours.” Haskins waved them in, then locked the door. Then he turned and shuffled away from the door toward a desk piled high with various stacks of scrolls held in place by rocks, boots, and an arm from a barnacle-encrusted statue.

Kerch walked over and set the bottle in front of Haskins, who proceeded to paw at it until he got a grip. Then, with surprising agility, he ripped the top off and guzzled a fair amount. Once he caught his breath, the first mate tossed a scroll at him: “Got the ship’s manifest here.”

Haskins belched, then cleared his throat. “That’s the good stuff.” He looked at the scroll, then tried to grab it, failed, tried again, failed once more, and on the third try, picked it up. He tossed it on the pile under the statue’s arm.

“Aren’t you going to verify that?”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“Okay, next Tuesday, then.”

“Now listen here. The guild doesn’t pay us if you don’t confirm the information.”

“Quit yer yapping. I’ll get to it.” Kerch slipped him another gold coin. Haskins picked up a stamp, rolled it in ink, and slammed it down on the scroll, ‘confirmed.’

“Good,” Kerch said with an exasperated sigh. “One more favor to ask.”

Haskins leaned forward and smiled, showing too many rotten and crooked teeth. “Say again?”

Kerch rolled his eyes and slipped another gold coin toward the old man.

“Sure,” Haskins said, scooping the coin into his crab-like hands. “What you want?”

Riasean leaned forward. “I need to search the manifests for the slave ships that came in yesterday.

“Look under the boot. I think those came in yesterday.”

The young man turned to the pile, lifted the boot, and looked through the papers. Sure enough, it was the manifests for the previous day. Going through the stack took the better part of two hours, but the best he could determine was that only three ships came in with slaves, one from Finn, one from Dunharraw, and the last from Bretagne. Scanning that last one, he found the ship name, “Rivoli,” and the list of slaves: their sex, age, and race. But nothing that definitively pointed at Larah.

Riasean tapped his finger on the pile and looked at Haskings. “You sure these are the only manifests that came in yesterday?”

“Yup. Find what you’re looking for?”

Pushing away from the pile, he replied, “No.”

“Well, you could always go to the ships and ask around.”

Riasean stared at the wall. “Where are the records of sale related to the slave market?”

Haskins pointed to the pile under the rock. “Try that one.”

Moving to the pile, Riasean flipped through the sheets for yesterday. After about an hour of looking, he found the list. It had more information than the ship manifests, including distinguishing marks, buyers, etc. The thought of what that entailed sickened him, but he plunged on. After half an hour, he pushed it away with a curse. He looked at Kerch. “We can leave now.”

“No luck?” the First Mate asked. After Riasean nodded, he turned to Haskins. The old man sat slumped in his chair. “Gotta go, old friend. Thanks for your help.” A snore was his only reply. “Well, at least he ain’t dead.” With that, they slipped back out the door.