“Have you decided what you wish to ask about?” Seraphine asked.

  “Yes, I’d like to ask about my family. Is there a certain way I have to phrase my question or…”

  “Family.” Martin had just started to seek clarification when Seraphine repeated the word and released the first string. It fell, and expanding as it fell, slowly made its way down to the table, broadening and winding its way until it was long enough to tie the hair of several women. Seraphine studied the string in silence for a moment before she spoke.

  “I see… two wives. One will live, the other will die. One will return, and the other will depart, never to be seen again.”

  Two wives? He had lost one already, hadn't he? Does Boudica count as his wife? And what about Elisia? Martin wanted to pursue these more, but knew he needed to change the topic. Seraphine waited for him in silence.

  “Tell me about the dockyard.” Martin had weighed this for a while, debating between something more open like “my quest” or “revenge,” before ultimately deciding on something more focused.

  “The dockyard,” Seraphine said, her voice sounding both soft like a whisper and yet spoken with the force of a command given to the masses. Another string fell. Again, she studied the path in silence. At two points, it overlapped the previous string, and she looked at them with a frown.

  “A danger is coming, with some connection to your family. A danger, yes, but also an opportunity. If you can stand fast, it might be the door to what you are looking for.”

  Martin was silent again. There was that word opportunity again. Even Jacques had used it to describe his way forward. A Faceless Man must pursue opportunities to expand his powers. Does that mean something cosmic was on its way to the Landing? The dockyard has its fair share of dangers, but it was hard to imagine anything outside of the ordinary happening there. Could it be through Crane or Harrow? But no, there was no blood relation there. Unless there was? Could he somehow be related to Crane? And that was why the Faceless God had sent him on this quest? Most of his intelligence on Crane had come directly from Jacques and the research conducted by his little birds. Was it possible that the information he was given had deliberate holes in it?

  He mused on this for a moment before putting it aside. He would have to look into Crane more on his own time. For now, he had one last question, and he had already resolved what to ask about. The key to moving forward, to finding the truth of what had befallen him and his family and achieving his revenge was one thing.

  “Power,” Martin said.

  “Power,” Seraphine repeated, a knowing smile on her lips.

  The final string fell. This was the slowest of them all. It wriggled as it fell, like a worm suddenly pulled from the earth, squirming to get free. As it fell, it tangled, the thread tossing itself over and even managing to twist itself into a knot at one point before falling in a mess over the previous two strings.

  The smile faded from Seraphine’s face as she studied the string. Her interpretation this time took longer than the past two put together. Martin remained silent, supposing it was fair play for his own long pauses previously. His eyes traced the third string, often losing it as it crossed with the other two and having to restart from the beginning to continue his journey.

  “Interesting,” Seraphine said finally, closing her eyes and bringing her fingers up to massage her temples as if the act of fortune-telling had caused her great strain.

  “What is?” Martin ventured to ask.

  “Power is in your past, and all in your future, from above, and from below, but I’m afraid it will come at a great personal cost. Anything else is lost in the interference.”

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  “Interference?” Martin asked. “From the previous two threads?”

  “That and… something else. Something even I cannot see.”

  The two were silent. Power. In the past, Martin could only assume it was talking about the True Creator and the Faceless God. One had struck him down, and the other had picked him up. Personal cost? He had already paid that, and look where it had gotten him. What more could he have to pay in the future?

  And the interference… The Weaver God was powerful; Jacques and Aelar had given him sufficient warning about that, and the web he had fallen into was the most powerful presence he had ever felt save for his time in the presence of the Faceless God himself. What could interfere with a power on that level? It could be that the unnaming of the True Creator had a power to prevent scrying of his future. Or perhaps it could be that the True God had done more than simply strike him down and forget about him. It could be that he was still under his all-seeing eye, even now. The Faceless Man resisted the urge to shiver. Martin shook around him like a thin coat on a winter’s day.

  Finally, Seraphine opened her eyes and appraised Martin again. “I see now why Aelar wrote about you with such care.”

  “He wrote about me?” Martin asked, glancing at the letter that still lay on the corner of the table. “I had assumed it was just about his last mission from our lord.”

  “It was. That and other things, but you must permit a lady some secrets.” The knowing smile returned to her lips as she uttered this last. It was a beautiful smile. One could imagine writing a thousand letters for the chance to see it again. Martin wondered if his delivery was strictly business or something more.

  “I see," Martin said, "Our time together was brief, but I consider Aelar a mentor to me. I’m glad I was able to be of some service to you both.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. It’s rare to see a man with so many strings attached to him, and now it seems we are attached as well. I wish you well, Martin, and should you need help, you know where to find me.”

  Seraphine stretched out her hand, and Martin reached out to take it. He was again struck by the softness of her skin and the warmth that radiated out of her. As he looked into her eyes, he could feel the temptation of a far stronger spell than he had fallen for the last time. He let go and let his hand come back to rest near his jacket pocket. Ready to impale himself should he feel things begin to slip away.

  “Thank you for your wisdom. You’ve given me much to think about.” Martin gave a polite bow and walked off into the night. As the door of the Black Dog closed behind him and the noise of the bar faded, he shivered. Seraphine had presented herself as a friend, and Aelar’s letter seemed to indicate a relationship between the two that was more than passing contacts on a mission. However, something inside him told him that it was best not to get too involved with the Weaver God. Should he need help in the future, he hoped he would have a few more options to start with before having to make another trip to the spider’s web known as the Black Dog.

  Martin made his way home slowly, lost in thought. As he approached the area near where his usual drinking spot was located, he spotted a familiar figure under a clock.

  The man's face was barely visible behind his popped collar and the worn-down derby hat he had pulled low over his eyes, but he could be seen to be staring intently at the clock. Martin pulled off slightly to observe him for a moment.

  The Worm, they called him, and if the rumors were to be believed, he was a touch off in the head. Martin wondered what in particular he was waiting for. There was a soft hiss of steam releasing as the minute hand moved a notch forward. A chime began to ring out over the city. Nine times it rang, marking the hour to all. As the chime began, the Worm's shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he had been in a state of disbelief that the hour might actually arrive. Adjusting his hat but looking at no one, he moved away from the clock and walked off into the night.

  Martin was prepared to head home and push the whole thing out of his mind, but before he could do so, he noticed a third man standing on the corner, partially hidden by the large sign of a tailor's shop. He was poorly shaven, and his lips bore a number of scars, as if he had never gotten the hang of using a razor blade. His corduroy pants had several patches crudely sewn into them, the thread looking a bit like the crossing scars on his lips. In his hand was an unlit cigarette that he slowly brought up to his mouth. His shoulders were rounded, leading to a head that stuck out oddly forward in the direction of the Worm's retreating figure. He was gazing intently at the Worm's back, looking away only to fish out a lighter from his fraying jacket pocket. As he looked up to light the cigarette, he noticed Martin observing him. He paused, lighter ignited just in front of the tobacco, and foot half-raised in a first step forward. He calmly brought the lighter forward and ignited the cigarette before turning around and walking in the opposite direction.

  Martin paused a moment longer at the corner, torn between following either of the men. At last, he decided not to pursue any more trouble and chose a third path, one leading directly home. As he walked through the darkening night, he couldn't shake the feeling that he would cross paths with the two men again, not unlike the threads on Seraphine's table.