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the city’s islands lay sensibly sleeping, dotted here and there with specks of light rather than the profligate glow of the Golden Steps. At the heart of the city, the three crescent islands of the Great Guilds (Alchemists, Artificers, and Merchants) curled around the base of the high, rocky Castellana like slumbering beasts. And atop the Castellana, like a looming stone hill planted in a field of mansions, was the dim outline of the Mon Magisteria, the fortress of the archon.
    Tal Verrar was supposedly ruled by the Priori, but in reality a significant degree of power rested in the man who resided in that palace, the city’s master of arms. The office of the archon had been created following Tal Verrar’s early disgraces in the Thousand-Day War against Camorr, to take command of the army and navy out of the hands of the bickering merchant councils. But the trouble with creating military dictators, Locke reflected, was getting rid of them after the immediate crisis was past. The first archon had “declined” retirement, and his successor was, if anything, even more interested in interfering with civic affairs. Outside guarded bastions of frivolity like the Golden Steps and expatriate havens like the Savrola, the disagreements between archon and Priori kept the city on edge.
    “Gentlemen!” came a voice from their left, breaking into Locke’s chain of thought. “Honored sirs. A walk across the Great Gallery cannot possibly be complete without refreshment.” Locke and Jean had reached the fringes of the Night Market; there were no other customers in sight, and the faces of at least a dozen merchants stared keenly out at them from within their little circles of fire or lamplight.
    The first Verrari to throw his pitch against the gates of their good judgment was a one-armed man getting on in years, with long white hair braided down to his waist. He waved a wooden ladle at them, indicating four small casks set atop a portable counter not unlike a flat-topped wheelbarrow.
    “What’s your fare?”
    “Delicacies from the table of Iono himself, the sweetest taste the sea has to offer. Sharks’ eyes in brine; all fresh plucked. Crisp the shells, soft the humors, sweet the juices.”
    “Sharks’ eyes? Gods, no.” Locke grimaced. “Have you more common flesh? Liver? Gills? A gill pie would be welcome.”
    “Gills? Sir, gills have none of the virtues of the eyes; it is the eyes that tone the muscles, prevent cholera, and firm up a man’s mechanisms for certain, ah, marital duties.”
    “I have no need of any mechanism-firming in that respect,” said Locke. “And I’m afraid my stomach is too unsettled for the splendor of sharks’ eyes at just the moment.”
    “A pity, sir. For your sake, I wish I had some bit of gill to offer you, but it’s the eyes that I get, and little else. Yet I do have several types—scythe sharks, wolf sharks, blue widower….”
    “We must pass, friend,” said Jean as he and Locke walked on.
    “Fruit, worthy masters?” The next merchant along was a slender young woman comfortably ensconced in a cream-colored frock coat several sizes too large for her; she also wore a four-cornered hat with a small alchemical globe dangling on a chain, hanging down just above her left shoulder. She stood watch over a number of woven baskets. “Alchemical fruit, fresh hybrids. Have you ever seen the Sofia Orange of Camorr? It makes its own liquor, very sweet and powerful.”
    “We are…acquainted,” said Locke. “And more liquor is not what I had in mind. Anything to recommend for an unsettled stomach?”
    “Pears, sir. The world would have no unsettled stomachs if only we were all wise enough to eat several every day.”
    She took up one basket, about half-full, and held it up before him. Locke sifted through the pears, which seemed firm and fresh enough, and drew out three. “Five centira,” said the fruit seller.
    “A full volani?” Locke feigned outrage. “Not if the archon’s favorite