"I think you've had enough," said Deklow, wiping a mug that he'd decided not to refill.

"Have I?"

Discreet had been drinking ever since Arynlock had failed to make sense of the coins. That was the previous evening – morning and afternoon had come and gone, and the sun had long since set.

"Drinking yourself silly isn't going to accomplish anything. It's certainly not going to help us find the mainland. You had a setback last night at Arynlock's, but we can still keep searching."

"A setback?" gasped Discreet. "A setback? Those seven coins might as well have been ornamental beach pebbles for all the good they did. Arynlock had no idea what to do with them."

"But that doesn't mean it's over."

"The mainland is gone, Deklow. We're never going home."

"How do you know that?"

The god of time glanced up with unfocussed eyes, his elbow slipping on the ale-soaked bar. He looked worse than Deklow had ever seen him. He looked as though he'd lost his reason to exist. Not even the attention of the underpriced gentlemen's entertainment in The Old Unfaithful could distract him from his misery.

"We needed to get everything together and set sail before The Three could figure out what we were doing. I had them following Irikhart to keep them occupied. They walked right into my trap – they were no match for Lytette in their state. By now, they will have fully recovered, and Lytette won't be able to stop them. Soon enough, they will find us, and you know exactly what they will do."

"You have predicted this?" asked Deklow.

"I predict everything."

"I meant with certainty?"

Frail and drunk, the god of time vainly searched for something more to drink. His eyes showed despair, regret. He was all but begging for another ale. Deklow felt sorry for him and relented, handing him a small cup to keep him talking.

"It took decades of intricate planning, sometimes spending countless months on difficult calculations, working out all the issues, and weaving together a foolproof plan – which was ultimately unravelled by a drunken fool who stole a broken compass. Evidently, I have lost my grasp of time – of the future. I am no longer the god of time."

"The compass is broken?" asked Deklow, avoiding the more difficult topic of that conversation.

"Didn't Pektyne mention that?"

"Well, yes, but I assumed... why did you need a broken compass?"

"I didn't need a broken compass, Deklow. I needed the navigator. Pektyne was supposed to bring the Assistant Navigator with him to Arynlock."

"The navigator? You mean Rendyle?" queried Deklow. "But... so the compass..."

"You don't need a compass to read the Navigator's Coins. You need a godsdamned navigator. Preferably one who has four decades of experience on the high seas. Who knows every one of the stars no matter where they happen to be wandering and, most importantly, can tell the difference between those that are leading him and those that are deceiving him."

"Alright, calm down," said Deklow, realising that, for the first time, the once god of time was actually being helpful – in his own unpleasant way. "So, the first thing we need to do is get Rendyle here."

"It's too late," said the until-recently god of time. "The Three will find us. They will kill us. And it will all be for nothing."

"I'll make you a deal," suggested the innkeeper. "I will keep you here, drunk as you like, for as long as you like, provided you keep giving me useful information on how to find the mainland so that I can continue the search. Furthermore, if you stop whining like a miserable bastard, I won't tell anyone your real name, Discreet."

"You wouldn't—"

"Don't push me."

The former god of time sat up a little straighter. He indicated that he was a little low on ale, and that Deklow would need to make good on his side of the bargain for the discussion to continue. Deklow obliged, understanding that he had already won the battle, even if he was going to need to pretend to fight a little harder.

"You will need help," suggested the previously god of time. "Lytette, for one. Irikhart too, though his value as a hero is rather questionable. Tailfin. The humans too. All of them. The Three will need to be defeated or evaded. That will not be easy."

"What about—?"

"No," insisted the retired god of time. "He will not help. He would sooner kill us than help us. Do not ask Him."

Deklow considered potential allies for some time, he felt sure there should be more. There were dozens of gods on Renryre Island back in the day, and on the mainland too. Where had they all gone? They couldn't all have been killed.

"The dead girl," said the no-more god of time.

"What?"

"The dead girl," he repeated, with the expression of a man who couldn't grasp why no one knew what he was on about. "The one in the crater. She cannot be killed – at least not in the crater itself. If you can lure The Three into Dead Girl's Crater..."

"How would I do that?"

"Irikhart. He promised to return there, to find the druid. If you can send Irikhart to the crater the dead girl will surely trap him there, and she will be forced to help when The Three attempt to retrieve him."

"You would have me send Irikhart... as bait? There has to be another way."

"You could fight them yourself?" suggested the god.

Deklow considered his options. He didn't much like them. Self-preservation certainly seemed a priority. The Three would come after him soon enough. Perhaps a distraction to keep them occupied might work.

"And what about the goddess of the forest?" suggested Deklow. "The tigress?"

"Yes," considered Discreet. "Yes, perhaps the hermit... no, Abbikson could convince her. He seems to have a way with goddesses."

Deklow considered the two promising leads. They were something, a start at least. But there was still much to be done.

"If you will excuse me, I have other guests to attend to," said the barman, even as the ex-god of time lost interest in the conversation and focussed intently on his mug of ale.

*    *    *

"I think you've had enough," said Deklow, wiping another mug that he'd decided not to refill, though suspecting he would be doing so anyway.

"Have I?"

"We need to talk, Kyrnrie, about what happened last night at Arynlock's. About... well, I'd rather we spoke while you were still able to make sense of the words."

The thief looked up with a fuzzy expression. He appeared to be a little confused, especially at the complete lack of mugs he happened to be holding.

Deklow glanced around Kyrnrie's table, currently occupied by Irikhart the god of fools, Ryleine the huntress, Abbikson of the desert, Gerylde the hermit, Tailfin the crime lord, and The Scribe with no name. Nelysse had gone home a while earlier, somewhat less interested in debauchery.

Tailfin had surrounded himself with surprisingly few criminals for the evening's affair. The Spotted Seahorse was widely known to be one of the few taverns that was not run by Tailfin. Of course, none of them were run by Tailfin. He simply donated a certain amount of coin in exchange for information and the privilege of setting his lackeys up in strategic positions all over town. The Spotted Seahorse was no different... it just claimed to be.

"Alright, Kyrnrie. Take a seat. I will bring a full round to your table. On the house."

Kyrnrie smiled happily as he staggered back to the table and Deklow began pouring a round of heavily watered-down ale.

"Can you take over for me, Merilyce?" he asked as he assembled a tray full of drinks.

The former fishergirl crossed her arms and stared Deklow down. She didn't look particularly happy.

"When we talked about my apprenticeship... this isn't exactly what I had in mind!"

"Just take over, will you. You can't learn to achieve synonymous self co-existence until you can draw the perfect pint of ale. Mistakes cost dearly. You need patience, and lots of it."

Deklow handed out the round of drinks as he reached the table and took a seat himself, taking a swig from his own mug of unwatered ale.

"I understand you all experienced a little set back," said the innkeeper.

Many sets of curious eyes fell upon him.

"I know everything that goes on in this town. On the whole island, for that matter. If you are still interested in finding the mainland, I can help."

Mouths remained closed, except those sipping on their drinks, but a shared look of hope swept across the table.

"How..." said Abbikson, his finger pointing more or less towards Deklow. "How is it... that you are working in this bar?"

Deklow's ability to shrug off questions like this had been fading recently. Too many people visiting too many taverns. What happened to everybody just sticking to their local haunt? He sighed as he opted for a different tactic.

"You've had a few run-ins with gods lately? Well, this is just another one of those."

"You are a god?" asked Abbikson. "Like... the god of taverns?"

The drunkards at the table burst into laughter, but Deklow quite liked the title. He might consider keeping it, in fact. Returning to his audience, he realised perhaps it wasn't the most appropriate occasion to discuss the matter.

"Fine. Maybe this isn't the best time. Tomorrow at lunchtime, when you're all sober, let's talk about how we can find the mainland. Alright?"

Deklow walked back to the bar, disappointed that his profound skill in serving drinks had been his undoing. Merilyce waited with a sour expression. She subtly pointed down at the bar with a flick of her eyes, keeping her arms crossed in a stubbornly proud manner. Deklow glanced down, and saw a pint of ale. The crest of the foam bubbled just above the rim, with absolutely no spillage down the side.

"What are you wasting time for?" demanded Deklow with an impatient glare. "You should be concentrating on your exercises. You will never learn synonymous self co-existence if you're spending all your time worrying about the crown. It's just an ale!"

The girl's jaw dropped as she searched for a retort, but Deklow's failure to contain a smile snuffed her angry response before she could even formulate it.

"We need to speed up your training," added the god. "I am going to need your help with something very important. But right now, I need to have a word with someone else."

*    *    *

"I think you've had enough," said Deklow, wiping yet another mug that he'd decided not to fill, and wondering whether he was truly working in the correct industry.

"Have I?"

"Constable Pektyne, I have come across some important information. I will need your help—"

"That shief shtole my compash," reminded the watchman for the hundredth time.

"Yes," said Deklow. "I am all too aware of the damage Makyron has caused."

"Damashe?"

Deklow sighed as he surveyed the drunken sailors in their perpetual party in The Sharpened Bluntooth.

"Indeed. But let's forget about the compass for now—"

"He shtole my compash!"

Godsdammit, he needed to switch to lighter alcohols.

"Yes, I understand. He stole your compass," sighed the god as he massaged the bridge of his nose. "Right, I will help you get your compass back, if you help me with something."

"I'm lishening," replied the constable, though his eyes appeared to be focussed on an invisible insect flying around the bar.

"We're in danger here, both of us. To begin with, you need to sober up. We need the city watch... in full force."

Deklow studied the drunken constable who was visibly struggling to sit on the barstool. He glanced at the new recruit – Tyke had passed out on the bar some time before, his dagger held firmly in his hand, dangerously close to his own neck. Tyke might prove to be valuable too.

"And we need Rendyle too," added Deklow. "Can I count on you, constable?"

Pektyne looked longingly at his mug, and reluctantly set it down.

"Can we shtart in the morning?"

"Absolutely. Besides, I should pay some of the other guests a little attention too. Good night, Pektyne."

Deklow's Tale continues in I Think You've Had Enough part 2 >>>