His fingers tighten on the handle. The stain skates a halo about the illustration of a great serpent: Grotesque, and gone runny (some sea monster, to balk at a bit of damp —)

But closer, blue shores break onto the Storm Coast, an assortment of marks sketched in lead. They spiral south into crag, a few days' ride past the highway.

"An old one, I think." Not a reef at all. "I'd offer you a cup, but it's gone sour."