Barnaby Holt’s arm froze in mid-air.
He looked down at the battered wicker basket in his fist. Then he looked at the cold, silent mass of the Tier 7 Imperial Dragon-Cauldron.
Finally, he looked back at Kaelen with wide eyes.
“Bruised weeds?” Barnaby croaked, his voice cracking like dry kindling. “Boy, these are rotten sea-moss clippings from under the mackerel barrels! They smell like dead harbor crabs!”
“Good,” Kaelen said, rolling his stiff neck until his collarbone clicked. “That means they’re already tender. Less chewing for the fire. Toss them into the hopper.”
Across the caldera, four thousand islanders erupted in mocking laughter.
Dockside corsairs and merchants leaned over the railings, pointing down at the southern dais.
“Did you hear the little vagrant?” a scarred corsair bellowed from the third tier. “He wants to cook rotting fish-moss in a dragon cauldron!”
