The hunched old bugger wobbled a bit as he stowed hisself across the table. His grog splooshed over the edges of his tankard as he clunked it down and cursed. It made a soupy ring 'round itself on the table's layers o' crust - lovingly built up through long, hot years of unwash.

     Scurvy McGill was a scallywag and the king of all liars, but I'd seen that glint in his one good eye before. I looked about testily, though the few ruffians left in this Wayfarer's Rest were far too gone in their drinks to be paying us any mind.

     “Treasure?” I half-asked.

     He grunted. And then he leaned in, taking upon his shoulders the mantle of conspiracy. “In every port, in every house of ill repute, the scuttlebutt’s the same... the Ways are opening up again!”

     I sucked breath through me missing front teeth.

     “Treasure,” I agreed.