Hawkhurst’s swimming mandate proved to be a big hit with the refugees. Even to those standing at the water’s edge, the potency of the swimming powers became clear.

  Lloyd encouraged everyone to jump in. “Ye see? She’s a lazy swim. Warm and gentle, like your own mother putting ye to bed.” He winked at the children, who looked to their parents for approval.

  The kids squealed with delight as they jumped in and swam, darting back and forth in the clean, rolling water. Their bobbing heads reminded me of Hawkhurst’s neighboring otter family. A few leaped out and back onto shore, utilizing another Amphibious bonus.

  I gathered my glow stones along the ledge and brought up the tail. To avoid losing anyone, Fletcher offered a line for everyone to hold, making it easier to keep track of one another in the darkness. The kids wanted to play with their newfound swimming abilities, but the adults kept them in the fold.

  We swam against the channel’s current, whose quiet, dark waters flowed beneath the city’s depths.

  I could hear Lloyd’s encouragement from the end of the rope. He acted heady, knowing that the engineers hadn’t yet discovered his sabotage of the fountains in the Two Towers district. As we swam, he offered encouragement. “Ye see, the Cap’n and the L.T. will take care of ye. You’ll be drydocked and ship-shape in no time. And who knows? Maybe one last dunk in the drink will rinse off their stink!” He cackled at this, and it pleased me to hear some newcomers joining him.

  In our case, the light at the end of the tunnel provided our source of concern. The climax to our escape pivoted on Fletcher’s ability to hold the flatboat. The winds picked up during the day, and our upstream captain would want to take advantage of it.

  True to Lloyd’s word, the flatboat captain proved himself to be a dependable canal rat. An anchored flatboat awaited us at the end of the tunnel. The peaceful soundscape of luffing sails and crying seagulls changed to splashes and shrieks of excitement as Hawkhurst citizens leaped from the water directly onto the flatboat’s deck. The citizens of Hawkhurst were an Amphibious breed.

  Fabulosa counted refugees as they exploded out of the water. “Patch, I’ve got 64 new pairs of pruned fingertips.” She smiled at a little girl pleading with her mother to return to the water.

  I was the last person aboard, and when I verified Fabulosa’s headcount, we weighed anchor and sailed upstream.

  Lloyd gestured to the front of the boat. “We’ll sail on a run, so the bow is downwind.” Those with Unbelievable Stench took the hint and moved downwind, and everyone else on the crowded deck gave us a wide berth.

  The captain provided blankets and hot bowls of stew. I declined the food but took the covering and found a quiet place on the bow to sleep.

  The flatboat’s beam swung back and forth as it tacked upstream. The noisy operation kept me awake, but the pink sun had burned off the morning chill and dried the dew on the deck. Even in a damp robe, I felt warm. I drifted in and out of consciousness. Barely out of Arlington, I resigned myself to giving up on eight hours of sleep. With so many people on board, finding a restful place wasn’t possible. The ravenous passengers cleaned out the galley, so I dipped into my inventory rations.

  It’s been six days since we left Hawkhurst. I checked out the town’s construction status.

  Work on the barracks meant they had completed the shrine. We could now use Forren’s favor for Glowing Coals and rushing construction. The shrine also bumped our culture by 5 percent, explaining our improved building efficiency to 81 percent.

  And the town reached that number without a governor or lieutenant governor present, nor had someone artificially inflated it with celebrations and alcohol.

  I wished Charitybelle could be here to see all this. I caught myself tightening my jaw at the prospect of avenging her. If I wounded Winterbyte with my Divine Bow, we could track her. Where would she go?

  I wondered what it would be like to encounter her in Belden or Basilborough. Would I risk Mr. Fergus or Mother Marteen over revenge if Winterbyte somehow involved them? Would I keep the moral high ground if I endangered NPCs? It wouldn’t seem to be a dilemma for anyone watching the game. Outside observers might easily see them as bots and shrug off the issue. But it wasn’t so simple for someone inside The Book of Dungeons. The game felt real, and actions had consequences. I had no plans to leave Miros soon, so I had to live with my decisions.

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  I suppressed my feelings and tried to relax, but the exercise felt futile. I watched the countryside pass by while our flatboat tacked upstream, hoping it would lull me into a calmer state. Something on this trip had hit a nerve. Visiting Lloyd’s old stomping ground and fighting Fatberg in the skating park stirred childhood memories.

  Fabulosa watched me. When I caught her eye, she came over. Aside from the wind blowing at her perfect mane of hair, she looked haggard. Her fancy clothes hadn’t weathered the dungeon well. “Have you slept?”

  Fabulosa tiredly shook her head and sat down. “No. How are you?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer her. By Fabulosa’s tone, I could tell she’d caught me talking to myself. I did that when I got lost in thought. My girlfriend sacrificed her game to save her, which wasn’t a pleasant memory. She looked concerned, and I felt too tired to be evasive.

  “Do you know when teenagers cut themselves?”

  Fabulosa’s brow furrowed, and she nodded. “A little. Our health teacher taught us it had something to do with depression. Why are you thinking about that?”

  “When we fought Fatberg—this is the stupidest thing—the room’s shape reminded me of a skatepark at eleven years old. I used to grind all around town. I wondered if being a daredevil became my version of cutting—putting myself in dangerous situations.”

  “All boys do that—”

  I cut her off. “No, I went way off the scale. I wasn’t learning tricks and moves. I did it for the rashes and bruises. Amazingly, I didn’t crack my skull open. I did other things, too. I keyed cars and hung out with older kids who beat up junkies and homeless people.”

  I rarely spoke about my past to Charitybelle. For some reason, I found this easy to admit to Fabulosa. She seemed more of a tomboy and could understand why anyone would want to be a daredevil. As I expected, she didn’t act uncomfortable, so I continued.

  “Lloyd’s song brought me back to a time when I was out of control. I didn’t know the difference between right and wrong. And I wanted to know what it was like to be bad.”

  Fabulosa looked down and nodded. “Yeah, I get that. Movie villains are popular. What’s the phrase? They partake in the forbidden fruit?”

  “Yeah. I bailed after a parking attendant caught us breaking into a van one night. My friends beat him up pretty bad. I watched the whole thing and felt so sick about it afterward. I even got hauled in by the police. Have you ever heard of how cops try to scare kids straight? It’s just child psychology—but it worked. After one visit to the jail, I buried myself in the public library. I went from being an antisocial vandal to an antisocial recluse.”

  Fabulosa grunted. “I reckon there’s potential bad in all of us.”

  I grunted in agreement. “Innocence isn’t a virtue. And all that sentimental stuff about children being sweet and wholesome is nonsense. Babies are amoral—someone has to teach us not to pull the puppy’s tail. Parents brainwash kids to be good, and I suppose it’s necessary for a stable society. But some kids never get that moral compass. Especially if they have bad parents. Without a role model, some kids become lost.”

  Fabulosa smiled wanly. “You sound like Mother Marteen. Remember her lesson about being on the opposite side of a coin? All that stuff about the difference between good and bad?”

  I nodded but sensed the conversation veering off track. “The point is, I want to remember this when we face Winterbyte. She’s as evil as us, and she’s playing a good game.”

  Fabulosa arched an eyebrow. “Evil as us?”

  “Think about all role-playing games. Players typically find a dungeon or a zone and kill creatures minding their own business—and our only motive is greed.”

  Fabulosa laughed. “I see what you mean. Quests are just window dressing—we’re there for the loot.”

  “Exactly. And killing to steal is as immoral as you get. The funny part is that role-playing gamers get a pass because people liken the fantasy genre to cartoon violence. Fantasy gamers don’t get a bad rep because we’re not using guns to kill.”

  Fabulosa stretched her shoulder muscles. “Well, I won’t feel bad for knocking out Winterbyte. I won’t chat with her if she plants that battlefield standard. I’ve got nothing to say. You can sympathize if you want, but I aim to even the score.”

  “Don’t get me wrong—I’ve got her number, too. I just don’t want to think of her as a villain.”

  Fabulosa waved her hand. “Whatever it takes. She’s got payback coming.”

  We fell into silence until Fabulosa changed the topic. “Fletch and I have been talking.” She looked around to see if we’d inherited eavesdroppers.

  Everyone else found places far away from us, bundled up or stretched out in the sun. Some cuddled while others slept. The wind shifted every time the boat tacked, so I knew our Unbelievable Stench wafted over the deck.

  I returned my attention to Fabulosa.

  “You and I should get off the boat and leg it home.”

  I looked up. “What do you mean?”

  Fabulosa lowered her voice again to keep our conversation private. “Winterbyte has resources. And I’m not sure we’re in the best shape to face her now. My cooldowns haven’t reset. There are still 36 hours left on our debuff. Fletch and the dwarves have it, too.”

  The debuff increased our chance of missing by 15 percent. The willpower reduction lowers spell resistance. “You want to split the party?”

  Fabulosa shrugged. “Winterbyte doesn’t know about the dwarves or Fletcher. This stink might work in our favor. I got to thinking about her sense of smell. If we promote Lloyd and Fletcher to the governor and L.T. status, they can tell her we’d split from Hawkhurst. They’ll look like credible settlement officers.”

  I nodded. “That checks out. They’re father and son.”

  “Right. And Winterbyte won’t have any reason to mess with them. She won’t waste her time. She’ll keep her ears up and nose to the ground looking for us. Fletcher can tell them we went to Darton Rock looking for her, which tracks because that’s where she sent her message.”

  I’d forgotten Winterbyte had been to Darton Rock. If she took the river to Arlington, every second we spent on this boat increased our chances of crossing paths with her. I looked at my cooldowns. Without a full night’s sleep, none of them reset. Despite our ranked-up combat skills, we stood in no condition to fight.

  “You’re right. We’re doing nothing here but putting these people in danger.”

  “I ain’t worried about Winterbyte and her mangy gnolls. We can lick ‘em with one arm tied behind our back. I’m worried she’ll use these folks against us. You know, threaten them to compromise the situation.”

  “In that case, we should get off now. The longer we stay, the more our scent lingers on the boat.”