The people of Cologues lived happy, normal lives. They laughed at the jokes told by friends in the quay-side pubs, especially the ones told by Harald. Their kids swam in the calm waters of the sheltered bay, assured that the Lady would protect them and keep them safe from harm, and their trust was well founded; no one had ever drowned in the waters around their city. They saw the dwarf wains come in and out, carrying goods to distant lands and far off cities; even to the High King himself in Mount Chavrelle. They had few worries, and little trouble. Life was good.

Life was good. Burbank reached out a long arm and wiped the water droplet from the tip of his nose before it could fall and held it up to his eyes, squinting through the dimly flickering candlelight to see the glinting reflection of his own face in it. The candle was a candle only in name; Burbank had been over collecting in the tunnels beneath the hogchopper a few cycles ago, and the result was a lump of recycled tallow he had stuck a twisted shred of braided hair into and set alight. It burned with a uniquely unpleasant odor and produced a singular hue of yellow flame, somewhat tinged with green—the hair had been collected from the tunnels below the hammersmasher’s, and the fumes from their machines often produced such colors as this.

The droplet quavered and broke, splashing to the brick floor between Burbank’s knobby knees and hobbed feet. He looked up contentedly and squirmed his long, thin body further into the shell he wore, then stretched out his feet and, with a sort of bowlegged scuttle, hurried forward, scooped up the candle, attached it to the lip of the shell over his brow, and rattled down the tunnel. It was fishing day, and Burbank knew just the spot—as long as Forbag didn’t get there first. Burbank’s heavy brow furrowed; Forbag had been a close friend for countless cycles but recently had been getting a bit too big for his shell. A few cycles ago, Burbank had foolishly shown Forbag his secret fishing pool, and Forbag was bound to think this knowledge was something he had discovered for himself.

As Burbank hurried down the tunnels, he was greeted by his other friends as they trundled past. Nearly all carried one of Burbank’s candles on the brim of their shell, which brought a smile to his face; he was well-known as the best candleshaper under the Bellthumpers. As he rounded the corner, he came within sight of Forbag just down the tunnel and on the other side of the waterway that ran the length of the center: Forbag was chatting amiably with Crawhop, and they both carried fishing poles. The skyblighted little sneakgrab was going to show the fishing pool to the biggest loudmouth in the tunnels, and it would be ruined—no secrets, no fish, no soft plip-plop of the echoing water droplets across the rippling pool!

The horror of this thought was too much for Burbank and he spluttered and floundered for a moment as Forbag and Crawhop ambled around the corner. Finally, he gathered his lost wits and snapped his quick fingers at the moths that had gathered around his candle’s flame. The disgusting scrattlerats could not claim the pool. This bleak vision must not be allowed to pass. Burbank hoisted his shell higher on his back, clenched his fishing pole tighter, and hurried forward to do battle.