Leaning against the beam beside us, the man with the banjo erupts into laughter, choking on his drink. He coughs, and laughs, and coughs, and laughs. "Captain Clarke!" he hoots, slapping his knee. "You're looking for Captain Hank Clarke?" He pounds his chest and swigs from his bottle, ceasing the coughing. The patronizing guffaws continue. "That's not 'im! Not even close!"

Dr. Oswald ogles the sailor, who looks to have spent some time in the pig pen himself. His faded blue naval trench coat is browned with mud. His face is filthy. There is cloth tied around his palms, and much of his long hair is loose from the pink ribbon at the back.

"I beg your pardon?"

The sailor rises, banjo dangling from one hand, bottle from the other. He separates us, prodding Simon and the fish people to one side, and the doctor and I to the other, as if too exhausted to find another place to look over the balcony. He chuckles again, then makes a sound as if he's going to puke. He doesn't.

The hand with the bottle hangs over and points. "That's Clarke Cheney. He's far from being a captain. I don't know what you'd call him. Deckhand, maybe. If even." He snorts and turns around, leaning his back and elbows on the railing. "I wouldn't hire him."

He eyes each of us in turn.

"A strange lot, you are. What's a band of misfits like yourselves doing in the West End, eh? You'll get mugged if you don't watch yourselves. Are you armed?"

"Yes," says both Dr. Oswald and Mr. Woods. They look at each other in surprise, as if neither knew the other were carrying weapons. I, for one, didn't know.

The sailor laughs again. "That's cute. What are you?" He waves his bottle at the doctor, then the professor, "Some sort of medical man? A... a teacher, here, maybe? A boy scout down here?" I huff and protest, but he carries on over me. "Fish people, in dire need of freshwater by the smell of 'em... what's she got a buoy for?"

So that's what Rootwig's ball was.

"Could you point us to Captain Hank Clarke?" I ask.

"I could, but I don't feel like you'd be impressed." He studies Dr. Oswald. "You look like the leader, here. Did Marky send you?"

The doctor folds his hands over the bulb on his walking stick. "We received a recommendation from the harbormaster."

The man spits over his shoulder and moseys towards the crowded dance floor. "Ha! Marky doesn't recommend me to anyone, that much I know. I'm a last resort!" He glances back, cooing. "What happened, doc, did Marky run out of captains for you? Pity. I think if he recommended one Hank Clarke, he would have also recommended you send a letter. At least I get to decide what impression to make, that way. Too late now! Like what you see, gents?"

With another laugh, he disappears into the bustle of awful dancers.

"Wait!" cries Dr. Oswald, starting after.

Simon simply stares. As do I.

The doctor doesn't get far before he comes back to us, flustered. We blink at each other, and open and close our mouths like fish.

"That was him. That was our man," Dr. Oswald whispers in disbelief. "And now I've lost him."

Simon swallows and nervously strokes the spine of his book. "How did he know who we were? He said I was a teacher, and you were a medical man, and he was... spot on."

"Yeah, but he also said I was a boy scout, so I'd say he was just taking guesses," I point out.

Simon prods his round specs up his nose. "You look the part."

"Hey!"

"Alright," says Dr. Oswald. He straightens out and regains his composure. "We'll split up, find the man, and rendezvous by the carriage in fifteen minutes. Have you a timepiece, Walter?"

"No, sir."

"Then you'll stay with me."

Simon attempts to protest the doctor's plan, but is silenced. Thenshie speaks in her garbled manner.

"We wait outside," she grunts, taking Rootwig's hunched shoulders. Rootwig blinks blankly through her giant spectacles. They start to lope away before the doctor responds. Watching their backs, he nods, first to no one, then to me, then to Simon.

"Let's find that captain."

Simon's face contorts into an expression of painful reluctance, but he follows the doctor and I, anyways. We separate. He slinks into the crowd further down, and we go in where the captain had. It is hard to focus with all the noise. Singing, chanting, shouting, humming, talking, and, making me feel nauseous above all, vomiting. I hear a banjo, I look up to see a muddy blue coat flare out a distance ahead. I point him out to the doctor, but the sailor is gone in a flash. The sea of seamen and shore women shifts around us.

A man falls on me, I push him off. A woman drapes herself around me, I claw her off.

I see the captain once again, dancing and enjoying himself. Our eyes meet, and I catch him winking. The sly dog is gone in seconds. A couple take his place.

"Here, hold this," he says, and I whip around to see him pressing his bottle into Dr. Oswald's hand. Dr. Oswald reaches to grab him, dropping his stick. The captain is too quick and is lost again. The doctor bends to retrieve his stick.

I search wildly around. They're everywhere! They keep touching us. Sometimes on accident, sometimes deliberately. The blue coat appears again over Dr. Oswald, but a brown coat blocks my sight of him. Dr. Oswald straightens out and searches for me. His shoulders relax at finding me near.

Then Captain Clarke is between us. He takes his bottle back from the doctor. "Thanks, mate."

Dr. Oswald and I both dive at him, and end up grabbing each other. Clarke chuckles and slips away, "Watch yourselves, lads!" With a two-fingered salute, he disappears.

Dr. Oswald growls and throws his walking stick to the ground. "This is ridiculous! The man's a child!"

I stoop to pick it up for him. "I think if the fish people want him, they'll catch him themselves if he tries to leave."

The doctor purses his lips. "I think you're right, Walt." He takes back his walking stick. "I think you're right."

He drags me off again. We push our way through the drunks. Their clawing and stumbling is violating, and I can't help but anticipate, with great anxiety, that I may be covered in further spew. It's all so dizzying.

Breaking from the crowd is overwhelmingly refreshing. The air feels cleaner, fresher. The alcohol and smoke is a tad less concentrated.

"There!" calls the doctor, his finger flying to point at the blue coat of Captain Clarke as it flutters out the door. He stumbles to chase the man, as though drunk himself. I stagger after him. It is impossible to tell if my motive is to catch the sailor, catch the doctor, or simply catch a fresh breath outside this godforsaken tavern.

We break out into the open, and there's our man, slumped on the porch against a railing stanchion. His left eye is twitching, the Aquians standing over him with the spikes on their hands out for all to see.

The captain raises his bottle and lifts his gaze to us. The whites of his eyes are spiderwebbed with purple venom. He tries to laugh, but it comes out choked, like a gag. "You got me," he croaks.

The doctor frowns. "Your eyes..."

Thenshie presses her spiny hands to Clarke's neck, and the purple recedes. The man rubs his eyes.

"I'm drunk," he moans, slamming the back of his head against the wood.

"I can see that. I don't approve."

"And I don't appreciate being poisoned!" He snatches up his banjo and leaves his bottle where it is. It's just about empty. He grabs onto the fence and awkwardly hauls himself up. I take pity and help him. I had felt the fish people's poison. It was disorienting.

"We aren't in control of the fish people," I apologize.

"Aquians," Dr. Oswald corrects.

The captain shoos me away and drapes his weight over the fence. He exhales. "Listen. What's your name, doc?"

"Oswald. Doctor Cornelius Oswald."

"So, you are a doctor. Brilliant," he mutters. "Well, listen, Dr. Oswald, I take my job very seriously, and I'd like to discuss working with you. However, I would really rather wait to do so."

"That is fair."

Simon joins us in front of the railing, stepping clumsily out the tavern doors. He is in so pitiful a state that I feel bad for him. His glasses are crooked, his hair is ruffled, his clothing is spoiled with spilled drinks, and there's a smeared red mark on his temple where a woman's lips had been. He leers at the cornered captain, but his face is bright red and he looks more flustered than anything.

"So, this is our fine captain? Really, Cornelius?" He narrows his eyes at the weary drunk. "How did you know I was a teacher? Did you steal my ID?"

"No," Clarke spits. He giggles. "It's the way you dress, teach. And you're carrying a book on diseases, which isn't an ordinary thing. Just an observation." Everything he says comes out smiling, slurred.

"Clever," I remark. Simon huffs, indignant.

"Thank you, kid," the captain beams. He closes his eyes and hums. "I'd love to stay and chat, gentlemen, but Wit's End isn't the place. Walk me home."

Simon groans. "Leave him lie, Cornelius."

"I've a mind to, Simon, but not a heart," the doctor admits. "We'll take the man to his residence, and leave him to sober up himself, away from all the threats in this area."

"You're a doll, sir!" the captain gushes.

"Sometimes, doctor, you are too kind," Simon scolds, shaking his head.

The captain presses his instrument into my hands and pushes off the fence. "Aha, and onwards!" He's lost his former swagger, walking now in a clumsy fashion. Perhaps the Aquian poison didn't mix well with liquor.

Dr. Oswald rushes to sling one of Clarke's arms around his shoulder. Simon trails after, muttering his displeasure to himself. He keeps a safe distance from the privateer. I bring the man's banjo along. The fish people, looking pleased with themselves, slip slap behind us with their webbed feet.

Clarke bursts out into an unimpressive rendition of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow', and though it is an offense to my ears, I hold my protests against it. He stops himself only to give direction to the doctor.

"There, next to the dock."

"The mangroves?"

"Yes, that's it!"

And he goes on.

Simon scowls. "This is madness. He's forgotten where he lives. Cornelius, just leave him in that mangroves, and we'll—"

"No, Simon."

I find myself reluctantly agreeing with Simon when we climb from the dock and start to poke our way through the vegetation. Could the doctor really believe that there's a house among the mud and trees? I flail my arms at the buzz of mosquitos.

The captain takes his arm away from the doctor and stops his singing. He falls into a puddle, and crawls along a root formation. He starts to push at the ground.

"This is just sad!" Simon exclaims, hand to his head.

Clarke gets up on his knees and jabs his hands into a thick wall of mangrove roots. He leans into it, and they part for him. They close behind him. Simon's jaw drops. My jaw drops. Rootwig clambers to the hidden doorway. Thenshie holds the roots aside.

"Come," she says.

"Yeah, get in here," invites the captain.

Simon and the doctor exchange glances. I duck through the grove first and follow along a tunnel of mud and roots until I reach an open den. It is mostly dark, save a strange blue glow from...

The captain lights a match before I can determine the light's source. It may have been the rock in my bandana, but I wasn't so sure.

He uses the match to light a lantern, then a candle, then a candelabra. He squints at me.

"Here, boy. Put it here," he gestures to a pile of cushions. I bring his banjo over. Then, he points me to a clothing line strung across the room. "Pick yourself a shirt and throw that one away. You're not going to get that stain out of it."

I blink at the clothesline. "Oh. Well, thank you, sir. That's very..."

"Yeah, yeah." He greets Simon and the doctor with a half-hearted wave.

"You live in a hole," Dr. Oswald murmurs.

"It's a hiding place, not a home. I'll find you in the morning." With that, he pushes through a curtain of beads and bails to a separate room. "If a fox comes through, leave him be." Moments later, snores arise.

"Charming," says Simon. "A real upstanding gentleman."

I pick a shirt off the line, as I'd been told to. I smell it first, just in case, and gratefully find it clean. It's big on me, but it's better than wearing another man's vomit. "Well, what happens now?"

"We go to the Inn in the East and have a night's rest. In the morning, we'll be returning to the harbormaster for a new captain," growls Dr. Oswald. "I won't be tolerating a drunk of this kind, Seer's choice or not."

"Oh, excellent, Cornelius!" Simon straightens his glasses and combs through his hair with his fingers. "I'm glad you've come to your senses." He starts strutting for the exit, but the fish people hiss at him and raise their spiky hands.

He jumps out of his skin, tumbling to the floor on his rear end. He fixes his glasses once again, and pants in shock.

"It looks like we're being held, Cornelius. I don't think we can leave."

Thenshie, whom I had previously thought to be a peaceful creature in control of the aggressive Rootwig, is just as primal as her companion. They fix each of us with warning glares, and gradually allow the spikes to recede into their palms.

Dr. Oswald moans and drops into a chair. "Well then, gentlemen, I suppose... make yourselves comfortable."

"Good grief," Simon breathes. He rises from the floor and settles into a hammock by the wall, where he opens his book. His nose consistently wrinkles at, I'd guess, the alcohol fumes on his jacket and vest.

I swallow and toss my old shirt into what I assume to be a sink. Then, I, too, find a place to settle for the night.