[h3]James E. Carter[/h3]

The stone maintenance platform along the embankment was narrow, damp, and stained green in places from years of algae accumulation. Two older Mitteland fishermen stood near the railing with their lines cast out, buckets beside them, boots planted carefully on the slick surface. This had been their go to spot for years, ever since being kids, many things had changed since then but this platform remained virtually untouched. A small pillar to remind them of better times.

“You hear about the Calarians?” one of them asked, adjusting his cap, “Word is they pushed through another front...”

The other shrugged without looking up from his reel, “They’ve been ‘pushing through’ for weeks now. Doesn’t mean we’re marching tomorrow.”

“If Inbur folds entirely, we won’t have much choice.”

“We always have a choice. Whether anyone asks us is another matter.”

The first man snorted softly and spat into the river.

Their lines drifted in silence for a few seconds before something disrupted the current near the wall. At first it looked like debris, maybe a sack or broken crate. Then it moved wrong.

“Hold on,” the second fisherman muttered, leaning closer, “That’s a man.”

The figure moved closer and a hand slapped against the stone edge, followed by another. The soaked figure dragged himself up onto the platform, coughing hard and collapsing onto one knee.

The two fishermen moved without hesitation.

“Easy there boy,” one said, grabbing the man under the arm, “Don’t fall back in.”

They hauled him upright and eased him against the embankment wall. Up close, they could see blood mixing with the trail of water beneath him, it was also running off his clothes.

“By the Dawnbringer,” the first man muttered, “You’ve been shot.”

Carter didn’t answer immediately. He pulled off his wet jacket with a stiff groan, revealing the graze along his upper left arm still leaking red. It wasn’t deep, but it hadn’t stopped bleeding either.

The second fisherman closed in to examine it with a squint, "Few inches either way and you’d have had real trouble. You’re one lucky kerl.”

“Luck’s not the word I'd use,” Carter muttered, his Mainer accent stood out immediately.

The first man noticed the pistol still holstered at the man side but didn’t comment directly. Instead, he began tearing a strip from a clean rag in his satchel.

“You want to explain what kind of trouble drops a man into the river bleeding?” he asked while pressing the cloth gently against the wound.

Carter gave a dry breath that might have been a laugh, “The kind you don’t stick around for.”

The fishermen exchanged a look but didn’t press further. The rag was wrapped tight enough to help slow the bleeding.

“You need a doctor,” the second man said.

“I need directions,” Carter replied, “Ardellian embassy.”

That got a pause, but then the first fisherman nodded slowly. “Once you’re up top, head away straight up the street, then may a left at Saddenter park, the one with the big kiosk. The foreign quarter's up that road. Blue-and-gold flag on the building, hard to miss once you’re near it.”

Carter absorbed that, steadying himself against the wall as he stood up. His left leg wobbled before catching his weight.

“You should sit a few minutes,” the second man advised, “You’re still shaking.”

“I can’t,” Carter said simply.

The first fisherman dug into his bag again and pulled out a wrapped sandwich, “Take this then, it's pork. You look like you haven’t eaten.”

Carter hesitated only a second before accepting it, “Thank you.”

“Try not to bleed on the stone,” the second man said dryly as he prepared himself a smoke.

Carter gave them a brief nod of gratitude, adjusted the bandage once more, and started up the narrow stairway leading off the embankment and back toward the streets.

The fishermen watched him go.

“He won’t make it far if they’re looking,” one said quietly.

“Maybe,” the other replied. “But he’s still walking.”

And they returned to their lines.