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waist. He waved a wooden ladle at them, indicating four small casks set atop a portable counter not unlike a flat-topped wheelbarrow.
    â€œWhat’s your fare?”
    â€œDelicacies 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.”
    â€œSharks’ eyes? Gods, no.” Locke grimaced. “Have you more common flesh? Liver? Gills? A gill pie would be welcome.”
    â€œGills? 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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œA 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….”
    â€œWe must pass, friend,” said Jean as he and Locke walked on.
    â€œFruit, 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.”
    â€œWe are…acquainted,” said Locke. “And more liquor is not what I had in mind. Anything to recommend for an unsettled stomach?”
    â€œPears, 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.
    â€œA full volani?” Locke feigned outrage. “Not if the archon’s favorite whore held them between her legs and wiggled for me. One centira is too much for the lot.”
    â€œOne centira wouldn’t buy you the stems. At least I won’t lose money for four.”
    â€œIt would be an act of supreme pity,” said Locke, “for me to give you two. Fortunately for you I’m brimming with largesse; the bounty is yours.”
    â€œTwo would be an insult to the men and women who grew those, in the hot glass gardens of the Blackhands Crescent. But surely we can meet at three?”
    â€œThree,” said Locke with a smile. “I have never been robbed in Tal Verrar before, but I’m just hungry enough to allow you the honor.” He passed two of the pears to Jean without looking while fumbling in one of his coat pockets for copper. When he tossed three coins to the fruit seller, she nodded.
    â€œA good evening to you, Master Lamora.”
    Locke froze and fixed his eyes on her. “I beg your pardon?”
    â€œA good evening to you, is all I said, worthy master.”
    â€œYou didn’t…”
    â€œDidn’t what?”
    â€œAh, nothing.” Locke sighed nervously. “I had a bit much to drink, is all. A fair evening to you, as well.”
    He and Jean strolled away, and Locke took a tentative bite of his pear. It was in a fine state, neither too firm and dry nor too ripe and sticky. “Jean,” he said between bites, “did you hear what she said to me, just now?”
    â€œI’m afraid I heard nothing but the death cry of this unfortunate pear. Listen closely: ‘Noooo, don’t eat me, please, nooo….’” Jean had already reduced his first pear to its core; as Locke watched, he popped this into his mouth,