The sea was black and hostile. It churned and boiled. The waves battered the little boat, taking it up and tossing it around like a bottle cork. 

Tip’s progress was painfully slow as if he were sluggishly pushing through a field of molasses. His face was etched with frustration as he strained to pull the oars. He was exhausted. 

Spitting a mixture of rainwater, salt and his own blood to the side, he squinted at the frothing seafoam for a sign of his pursuer. The man had plunged into the angry waters and started swimming after him with dizzying speed, but as the waves had soared even higher closer to the shore, Tip had lost sight of him. 

The muscles in his back and arms burned. How much further to the narrow shingle beach? 

The boat tilted violently to one side. Tip stared in horror as a massive hand gripped the gunwale. It struck him then how futile it was for a young boy, a mere child, to try to outmaneuver a seasoned thug, even if the latter was at a disadvantage with nothing solid under his feet. 

Tip thought of the card then, safely bundled inside the cape. Something hot, liquid and fast coursed through his veins like quicksilver. A nameless need asked him to keep the card safe and away from everyone. He rammed his boot into the man’s knuckles and they quickly disappeared overboard, swallowed up by the sea. 

As soon as the boat regained its shaky balance, Tip doubled his efforts on the oars.

It was no use. He was weak. His elbows quivered and the rain and sweat teased the oars out of his fickle grip. Only this morning Larkspur had chased him around their dingy shack with a bowl of raw eel and seaweed. “Just one more bite,” she’d pleaded but Tip shook his head, his lips sealed, like a stubborn toddler. 

Now, he swore he’d eat more. He’d start training with the other boys from the Hollow instead of curling up with his books and stories and treasures. He’d even start praying to his mother’s gods, if only he reached the beach before the giant caught up with him…

Tip looked over his shoulder and there it was. The shore was no more than a few yards away but he knew the waters were still too deep out here to jump in. Despite growing up by the sea, he was a lousy swimmer. He needed solid earth under his feet though the earth had always been so soft and shifting and treacherous in Raintown. Still, it was better than water. 

Water was a beast with a dark soul. 

Four years back, when Tip had been only eight, water had claimed his father. The sea had swallowed him one day and as much as Tip and his inconsolable mother had scoured the beaches and caves, they’d never found his body. The vast waters had refused to give up even a speck of his fishing boat. Not a trace of him had ever been washed ashore. Since then, Tip had started to find excuses not to join the other boys when they went down to the beach to swim and play.  

He couldn’t afford to think of his father now. The man’s bobbing silhouette appeared again, his arm flailing, reaching for the stern. Just then the bow scraped into the rocky bottom of the bay. Tip cast the oars aside and catapulted himself into the shallows, wading through towards the shore without looking back. As soon as he felt his boots touch the slippery pebbles of the beach, he was possessed with a new surge of energy.

He ran. 

The fastest route to the Hollow would be through the fish market. The notorious stench of the place would also help mask his scent. Or more crucially, the card’s scent. 

If it was here, I’d have smelled it by now, one of the men had said back at The Treasure Chest. 

He could smell the card! The blood curdled in Tip’s veins. He could only hope that the man who could track him by smell was the one still back at the shop. 

He climbed the small rise and dove between the market stalls. For a while, the only sounds came from the rain pounding over the filthy canvas stretched over the rows of rickety tables, cats grappling in a dusky corner nearby and Tip’s own wheezing.  

Finally, Tip caught his breath. The dull pain where the axe had hit him back in the tunnel wasn’t so dull anymore. It throbbed, along with his feet and arms. His chest stung and his lungs whistled. He was soaked through.

Why had he asked for all this?

For the first time, Tip wondered why he’d felt the need to run off with the card. He could have simply handed it over, left it behind and escaped. The men would have probably stopped chasing him. 

But he didn’t. Something he couldn’t quite put into words had made him hold on to it as if it was somehow essential to him. Even now, just the thought of the card tempted him to unfurl the cape and take one more look at it. It was an odd yearning he had never felt, something he’d only glimpsed in the eyes of dreamthorn slaves in their everlasting search for their next vial of the essence. 

Not yet, he told himself.

The fish market felt safe and familiar, even with all its clamor and commotion blotted out by the dusk. By morning, the place would turn into a bustling, colorful swarm but now it slept abandoned. Only the occasional creaking of the old wooden structures punctuated the steady rainfall. 

Tip knew his way around the rows of stalls like the back of his hand. He spent his days unloading fish boats at the docks and hauling catch with his rusty cart over to the market. From here, it was another couple of streets to the first stilt shacks of the Hollow. 

He’d just started weaving his way through the labyrinth of narrow passages when a cat shrieked as if someone had stepped on its tail. Something got knocked over in the dark and a crash echoed around the empty market. Tip froze. He looked around, his heartbeat picking up. 

Two ghostly outlines were moving in the shadows and slowly approaching him from either side. 

He should run. But was it safe to take the card home? He thought of Larkspur again, the two men hot on his heels, the shining edge of the axe. 

Exhaustion caught up with him. 

Rats scuttled past his feet and the two figures stalked closer but still he didn’t move. He’d overtaxed his body so it didn’t obey when he asked it to flee. Where would he hide anyway? As long as he held on to the card, the men would trace him. Petrified, drenched and cold, Tip shivered. 

A large raindrop slid off the awning above him and splashed over his nose just as the dark figures bounded towards him. He staggered backwards, bumping into something, and turned instinctively. The stench of rotting fish assaulted him but he smiled. 

It was a long shot, but he could try…

In a stroke of luck, another cat’s painful yelp masked the squeaking of the lid as Tip opened the large crate and slipped inside. Just in time. Two sets of boots squelched outside and he burrowed even deeper into the pile of waste. His eyes watered from the foul smell but he didn’t dare move to wipe them. 

Someone sniffed loudly. The tracker. 

Usually, Tip passed by the wooden crate several times a day but never paid it much attention beside the fleeting sense of revulsion from its smell. Fishmongers used it to discard fish heads and entrails but working at the market all day, they’d become so accustomed to the stench that no one bothered to empty it often enough. 

Sniff. Sniff. Like a dog. 

“I swear I saw him right here,” a voice grumbled just outside the bin. 

“Numbskull!” another shouted not far from there. “They’re paying you to use your nose, not your eyes!” 

Tip hugged the bundled cape closer to his chest and hunched lower into the reeking mush. Green bile rose at the back of his throat. As much as he strained his eyes, the darkness was absolute. 

Suddenly, a massive kick rattled the crate. Stinking slime sloshed Tip’s face. The wooden lid flew open. 

Tip closed his eyes, took a deep breath and called on his mother’s gods.