The five-day sail to Caladwyth gave Merren too much time to think and not enough to do about it.

  Ink had started eating again—barely. Small amounts, and only if Merren sat with her and offered it piece by piece like she was a puppy who'd forgotten how food worked. His crew found this hilarious. Merren found it exhausting.

  "Just eat the chicken," he said on the third day, holding out a piece. "It's good chicken. Fresh chicken. Well, relatively fresh. Ship fresh, which is its own category but still perfectly edible."

  Ink stared at the chicken, then at him, then took it with the delicate precision of someone accepting a gift from someone they didn’t trust and weren't entirely sure they wanted.

  "There. See? Not so hard." He offered another piece. "Though I'll remind you that I have a kingdom to save and really shouldn't be spending my valuable time as King Cocky’s envoy hand-feeding a dog who's perfectly capable of eating on her own."

  Ink's look suggested she was aware of this and had chosen to make it his problem anyway.

  "Fine. But when this is over and we're back in Eldmere and you're reunited with Seren, I'm telling her about this. The whole thing. Every undignified moment."

  Ink took another piece of chicken.

  By the fourth day, she was eating without his help. Still not much. Still at odd hours. But eating.

  It was something.

  ***

  "I'm worrying about everything," he told his first mate on the fifth morning as Caladwyth's coast appeared on the horizon. "Which is arguably worse than worrying about nothing because at least nothing has defined boundaries."

  His first mate, who'd been sailing with Merren for eight years and had learned when to engage with the rambling and when to just grunt, grunted.

  "Right. Caladwyth. King William. Old friend. Old debt. Should be straightforward. Relatively. Compared to committees who 'consider' things."

  Another grunt.

  Merren adjusted his coat—the green velvet one that had survived Vyrden and was now facing Caladwyth—and tried to look like someone who hadn’t just come from a Kingdom who’d decided that another Kingdom’s problems wasn’t something they wanted to concern themselves with.

  ***

  Caladwyth's harbor was nothing like Vyrden's geometric precision. Ships clustered in organized chaos—fishing boats beside merchant vessels beside naval longships in various states of repair. The docks buzzed with activity that felt alive rather than efficient.

  Merren breathed easier just looking at it.

  The Black Ballad made port mid-morning. No steward appeared with schedules. No harbor master with ancient ledgers. Just a dock worker who caught their lines and called up, "Berth fee's two silver, paid when you leave. Welcome to Caladwyth!"

  "Now that," Merren said to Ink, "is how you greet people."

  He'd sent word ahead—a rider from the last port they'd stopped at for supplies. So someone should know he was coming. Should have told King William. Should have arranged—

  "Merren bloody Thorn!"

  The voice carried across the dock with the kind of volume that came from years of shouting orders over ocean wind. Merren turned and saw Lord Cadogan striding toward them—older now, completely gray, but moving with the same energy he'd had when they were younger and considerably more foolish.

  "Lord Cadogan!" Merren descended the gangplank, Ink at his side still carrying his hat in her mouth because apparently that was her job now. "You've aged terribly. It's shocking, really. Should see a physician."

  "Liar. I've been gray since I was thirty and you know it." Cadogan's smile was genuine. "William got your message. He's waiting at the summer palace. Didn't want this meeting anywhere official. Too many ears."

  "Sensible. Very sensible. I appreciate sensible after Vyrden, where everything was extremely official and scheduled down to the precise bell and—well, it's a long story involving councils and mountains."

  Cadogan's eyebrows rose. "That sounds like a very interesting story."

  "It is. None of it good." Merren glanced down at Ink, who'd settled at his side with professional alertness despite still looking like she'd forgotten what food was for. "And I'm hoping William has better news from Eldmere than I do from Vyrden, because the last I saw of that situation was this one jumping onto my ship like she was fleeing for her life."

  "She might have been," Cadogan said quietly. His expression shifted—something between concern and anger. "Our sources report Jorvan didn't take the humiliation well."

  "Well, no, obviously not—he's not exactly known for his graceful acceptance of public embarrassment—but I left before he could do anything about it. Needed to reach Vyrden while there was still time to—" Merren stopped. "What did he do?"

  Cadogan hesitated. Looked at Ink. Then back at Merren.

  "He ordered every dog in Eldmere killed. Revenge for the ceremony."

  The words hung in the air.

  Merren looked down at Ink. At the dog who'd been so desperate to board his ship she'd torn a nail getting there. Who hadn't eaten in days. Who turned her back when he tried to comfort her.

  "Oh," he said quietly. Then: "Did he—were they—"

  "Our intelligence is unclear," Cadogan said. "Reports vary. Some say the dogs were killed. Some say something intervened—some kind of creature that scattered the guards. We don't have confirmation either way."

  "But she thinks they're dead," Merren said. "That's why she—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "Right. Well. That's—that's considerably worse than I thought. And I already thought it was fairly bad, so that's saying something."

  Ink pressed against his leg. Still alert. Still watching. Still waiting for threats that might not come.

  "There's a carriage," Cadogan said gently. "Let's get you to the palace. You can tell William about Vyrden. We'll tell you what we know about Eldmere. And maybe figure out what in all hells we're supposed to do about Jorvan before he kills anything else out of spite."

  They climbed into the carriage. Ink settled at Merren's feet, finally releasing his hat.

  ***

  The summer palace was smaller, more private. King William was in his study overlooking the sea, papers spread across his desk. Maps. Intelligence reports. Troop manifests.

  He looked up as they entered, and his serious expression broke into a genuine smile.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "Merren bloody Thorn. You actually came. And you shaved."

  "Your Highness." Merren bowed—proper etiquette, surprisingly graceful for someone who usually shambled about like a man perpetually negotiating with gravity. " You summoned, I appeared. As one does when royalty beckons. Though technically I summoned myself by sending that rider, which is somewhat presumptuous, but given the circumstances seemed justified, and—"

  "And you shaved." William stood, moving around the desk.

  "Historic occasion, really. Don't get used to it."

  William gestured for him to sit. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

  "Do I need an occasion to visit an old friend? Wait, don't answer that. Because I have a concern about a certain ruler of Garanwyn inserting themselves in Eldmere, which—given my usual stance on authority figures being right about things—should tell you exactly how serious this is.”

  William motioned at the papers. "We received word six days ago. That King Jorvan was moving into Eldmere. King Cocky was dead. And Helmut was restored to the throne."

  "Cocky’s not dead," Merren said quietly. "Just—before you ask—tremendously not dead. Very much alive, actually."

  William’s hand stilled. "What?"

  "That's why I'm here. The hyena story—well, it wasn't exactly a lie, more of a... plan that went spectacularly wrong at precisely the worst moment. You see, King Cocky realized Jorvan was moving to 'help' Eldmere, all very generous and official-sounding, and Cocky knew he couldn't stop him. Not as king, anyway. Would've ended up Jorvan's prisoner or puppet. So he decided—rightly or wrongly, jury's still out on that one—to stage his own death. Via hyena. Kith, that's the hyena's name. Lovely lass, bit sarcastic. Anyway, Cocky figured he'd have a better chance fighting Jorvan from the outside rather than from inside a very well-appointed prison cell. Jorvan was coming regardless, but the 'fake death' gave him convenient cover. Made his 'generous assistance' look more legitimate. However, Cocky's alive—in Eldmere, but also hiding as needs must. From Jorvan. Who is, along with the Church, being tremendously helpful. Just ask them. However, I fear Jorvan won’t stop at Eldmere."

  William let the moment sit, then sobered. "We spent two days debating whether to intervene," he said finally. "Half my council said it wasn't our concern. Eldmere's internal politics, they said. The other half saw what you see—that Jorvan won't stop at Eldmere."

  "He won't," Merren confirmed. "Now, see, about Jorvan—if he takes Eldmere, and he will take Eldmere unless someone stops him, you're next. Geography, innit? You share a border with Garanwyn already. Terribly convenient for him. Considerably less so for you. He'll keep expanding, one kingdom at a time, until someone stops him. And I’ll be honest—" Merren leaned forward, emphatic "—stop him now, while it's just Garanwyn and whatever he's scraped together from Eldmere, or don't stop him at all. Two kingdoms' worth of armies, resources, money? Can't be done. Well, probably can't be done. Best not to find out, really. Though it seems that Vyrden prefers to play the odds."

  "I know." William stood, moved to the window overlooking the fields, ocean in the distance. "We started mobilizing yesterday. Your arrival confirms we made the right choice."

  "How long?" Merren asked. "Until you can move?"

  "It’ll be at least two months to gather all our forces and supplies needed from across the kingdom. We're a naval power—our strength is in our ships and sailors—but that still means coordinating fleets from multiple ports, " He turned back. "Realistically, two to three months from today. Minimum."

  Merren's jaw tightened. "That's enough time for Jorvan to get very, very comfortable in Eldmere. Put his feet up. Start redecorating. Making it permanent, as it were."

  "It's the best we can do, Merren. Moving armies—even naval ones—takes time." William gestured at the maps. "I've also reached out to the King of Vyrden, our and Eldmere's direct neighbor."

  "And?"

  William’s expression darkened. "He's... considering. Says the High Spine protects him from Garanwyn's ambitions. Thinks he's safe behind the mountains. I’m not holding my breath."

  "I was there before I came here. I got significantly less information on his plans. He's being foolish. Magnificently foolish, really. The kind of foolish that thinks walls and mountains make him invincible right up until someone's knocking on his door from both directions simultaneously and then has no one to help him."

  "I agree.'" William’s voice was grim. "Some people can't see a threat until it's has them by the throat."

  "Will you move without him?"

  "Yes. We have to. If we wait for Vyrden to wake up, it'll be too late." William returned to his desk. "But I'll keep pressuring him. If he joins, we'll have overwhelming force. If not..." He shrugged. "We'll do what we can with what we have."

  A knock at the door. A servant entered, bowing. "Your Highness, the musicians have arrived for this evening's reception. They've heard the famous bard Thorn is here and are hoping he might honor them with a performance—"

  "Ah." Merren's face went through several expressions. "Well. You see. The thing is. My instruments are aboard ship. Very delicate instruments. Sensitive to temperature changes and, well, the recent journey was emotionally taxing for them—"

  William’s eyebrow rose. "Emotionally taxing. For your instruments."

  "Musical instruments have souls, Your Highness. Everyone knows this. And after recent events—the violence, the chaos—they need time to recover their resonance. Wouldn't do to play them while they're traumatized. The music would sound wrong. All wrong."

  Ink snorted.

  "I... see." William’s lips twitched. "And how long do instruments typically need to recover from emotional trauma?"

  "Hard to say. Could be weeks. Months, even. Depends on the severity of the shock." Merren was fully committed now, gesturing expressively. "And I'm actually in mourning for a tambourine. Lost her in a terrible accident. Very tragic. Can't possibly perform until the mourning period ends."

  "Of course. My condolences on your tambourine."

  "Thank you. She was with me for seven years. Or was it eight? Lost count. Beautiful instrument. Made from wood that only grows on one specific island during the third month of—well, you understand. Irreplaceable. Currently in mourning."

  The servant looked confused. "What shall I tell the musicians, your Highness?"

  "Tell them Master Thorn is here on urgent diplomatic business and unfortunately cannot perform at this time," William said smoothly. "But we're honored by his presence nonetheless."

  The servant bowed and left.

  Silence.

  Then William said carefully, "So you're still dodging an actual performance. You know, despite our many years of friendship, I don't believe I've ever heard you play."

  "Haven't you? Funny, that." Merren's expression was perfectly innocent.

  "Merren." William leaned forward. "Are you actually a bard?"

  "Everyone thinks so." Merren's grin was unrepentant. "I've never corrected them. Bit late to start now."

  Cadogan, who'd been silent this whole time, made a strangled sound. "You've been pretending to be a famous bard for how long?"

  "Oh, years now. Decades, maybe? Honestly lost track."

  William stared at him for a long moment, then laughed. "You magnificent bastard. All these years, everyone talking about the famous bard Merren Thorn, and you've just been—what? Letting them assume?"

  "It's useful, being underestimated. Or overestimated, depending on the room." Merren gestured expressively. "People talk more freely around a 'famous bard' than they do around a smuggler with connections across twelve kingdoms. Some think I'm just a musician—harmless, entertaining, bit silly. Others think I'm too important a personage to bother interrogating properly. Either way—" he gestured at the room, William, Cadogan "—this is my real skill, Your Highness. Moving people. Moving information. Making connections. Building networks. I've been doing this for decades. The ship is just transportation. The real work is knowing who to talk to and what they need to hear."

  "That's actually brilliant," Cadogan said.

  "Thank you."

  "Also completely dishonest."

  "Also that, yes."

  William shook his head, still grinning, then sobered. "Two months, Merren. We'll try to be there sooner, but tell your friends in Eldmere to hold on. Help is coming."

  "If they're still free by then."

  "Then we'll free them." William’s voice went hard. "Either way, Jorvan doesn't win this. The precedent is too dangerous. If he can swallow a kingdom whole through legal manipulation and Church infrastructure, what stops him from doing it again? And again? He has to be stopped. Here. Now."

  Merren nodded slowly. "Right then. I'll sail back—quickly. Plan how to hold out till you get there along the way. They'll need hope, won't they?"

  "Take this." William pulled out a sealed letter. "My personal seal. If you need to prove to anyone that help is coming, show them this. It's my word, in writing. That Caladwyth sails to Eldmere's aid."

  Merren took the letter, tucked it carefully inside his coat. "Thank you, Your Highness. For believing me. For acting."

  "Thank Captain Hardwick for this—gods rest his soul," William said quietly. "He saved my life—and Cadogan's—when we were kidnapped as boys. I owe him a debt I can never repay. The least I can do is help save his protégé's friends. Besides—" his expression hardened "—this isn't just about Eldmere anymore. This is about all of us. If Jorvan isn't stopped, we're all at risk."

  They clasped hands—king and smuggler, old friends meeting across years and changed circumstances.

  Ink waited by the door, patient and professional. Still holding Merren’s hat in her mouth.

  Outside, musicians were gathering for an evening reception that would not feature the famous bard Merren Thorn.

  Two to three months—if they could hold out that long.