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but was not, so far, getting up. A small, strange creature, with long webbed fingers and an elongated, hairless skull. A blue and green skin that shifted with each movement, resembling water. Large eyes and – yes! – the definite swelling of small, but perfectly formed breasts, and –
    ‘It’s rude to stare,’ the captive said reproachfully. Gorel found himself mumbling an apology. No male genitalia, that was certain. Hairless, too. He shook his head. ‘A thief’s a thief,’ he said. ‘Shall I shoot her?’
    ‘You wouldn’t dare!’
    ‘Gorel, put away the gun. You, what are you? Half-caste?’
    ‘Your mother was a half-cast, bird-shit. Half-bitch, half-whore. Your father was the excrement of garuda. Your grandmother was born of the piss of –’
    ‘Quiet,’ Kettle said. The captive stopped. Gorel was impressed. ‘You look like a mix of Merlangai and falang,’ Kettle said. ‘I’d say with some Nocturne blood somewhere in the mix. Am I right?’
    ‘What if you are?’
    ‘Is it difficult for you on land?’
    ‘I can manage.’
    ‘Would you be more comfortable back in the water?’
    The lying figure smiled. She had, Gorel had to admit, now that he thought about it, quite an attractive face. Her teeth were like fish bones, sharp and dainty, and her eyes had the colour of the distant ocean… ‘Aren’t you going to shoot me?’
    ‘I was thinking of asking if you’d care to join us for dinner,’ Kettle said. Gorel sighed and holstered his gun. Kettle, he was learning, had some strange ways about him.
    ‘Yeah? What are you having?’
    ‘I believe my companion is cooking eels according to some secret recipe I am not privy to.’
    ‘I’m boiling them,’ Gorel said. Their captive stood up and stretched. She was very naked, Gorel thought. But then, what need was there for clothes when you were in the water? ‘It does smell good,’ she allowed. ‘Very well, since you ask so nicely.’
    ‘I’m Kettle,’ Kettle said. ‘This is Gorel.’
    The thief bowed. ‘Sereli of Tharat, and let me say what a pleasure it is to meet you. Apologies for the way I spoke earlier. I have a tendency sometimes to use certain language when it is probably not called for –’
    ‘Like when someone is pointing a gun at you?’ Gorel said. Sereli laughed. ‘I’ve had worse pointed at me,’ she said. Gorel scowled. Then he went back to the eels.
    In the event, Sereli had gone back in the water (executing a graceful, arcing dive) and returned moments later from further up the bank, dressed this time, and with a big of her own. She was also carrying something else.
    ‘A turtle?’ Gorel said. The creature stared up at him mournfully. ‘Ever notice how their heads look remarkably like a male penis?’ Sereli said. ‘Taste better, though.’
    Gorel thanked her and took the turtle off her hands. The turtle wouldn’t fit in the pot. He ended up having to bash its shell against a rock and add the meat into the pot that way. Then he went back to his pack and took out his stash of dust and took enough for the world to slow down into a hazy cool flow like a slow river.

    They made love that night, the three of them. Sereli was warm and cool, her body like differing pockets of temperature as one swims through water; Kettle was a dry heat, like distant wind from the sands of Meskatel. Against them Gorel was dry ground, long-trodden, weary from the passage of armies and years, seeking respite in water and air.
    In the morning they headed to Falang-Et, together. A week later, they were finally there. Kettle flew in. Sereli swam. The city was a maze of waterways and canals. Gorel walked. He had left the graal outside the city. He took only his guns.
    ‘What do we need her for?’ he had asked Kettle. And the Avian smiled and said, ‘What if you have to swim to get into the temple?’
    Sereli was going to Falang-Et for the same reason as Gorel and Kettle, which was to steal. She had no specifics in mind: it was the time of