Teige scowled. "It's a fine Irish name, is what it is," he retorted. Hawk's brow furrowed. "Ennyway, Hawk isn't that creative either, right."

Hawk suddenly noticed the soaking map in his hands had drooped, dripping; it had torn alone one of its sections. The ink had smudged together. "Fuck," he muttered, and then, "Wait--how d'ya know my--"

He looked up to find a folded atlas at the tip of his nose. Teige presented it wordlessly, still scowling. "Name," Hawk finished, and took the atlas curiously.

"I heard you tell the guard in Port Siena," Teige answered. Hawk unfolded the map. It was laminated in plastic--already a huge improvement--and on the back the major islands of the Archipelago were spread out in larger, more detailed views.

"Poor choice, really," Teige went on. "Soon every military pig in the country'll know your name."

Hawk blinked. "You were the goblin," he said, comprehension dawning. "You were on the dock, too." He glanced up, frowning. "You stowed away, din't you--in--in my bag, or somethin'."