So began their new routine.

They never went back to the tavern or the inn, which turned out to have been a wise choice. Daisy and Hotfix rowed out in Rendow’s boat to let them know that the ogres had found a drunken goblin who didn’t mind telling them that two humans, a gnoll, and a murloc matching their descriptions had been at the tavern the night before. The sloshed goblin also told the ogres that the four fugitives had a dryad with them, meaning Drella wasn’t safe on the Speedbarge, either. The ogres came to the inn and demanded to be taken to Aram’s room. Daisy complied—there was no reason not to—and then tried to convince them that Aram and his friends had only stayed one night and had then taken a boat to New Thalanaar the next morning. She thought that might get the ogres to leave the barge while sending them off in the wrong direction. But she feared now she had overplayed her hand, because the ogres had not left, had clearly not believed her.

“If I had told them Gadgetzan, they might have been convinced. They seem to know you’re headed that way.”

The five travelers took up residence on Gazlowe’s yacht, which he kept anchored a few hundred feet from the Speedbarge. They shared a single large cabin and largely kept off the deck so that they couldn’t be spotted from the barge. This made all of them—but especially Makasa—fairly stir-crazy, but there was no remedy for it.

Sprocket was also on the yacht, and every morning, just before dawn, he would put Aram in the Steamwhistle and watch through a telescopic attachment on his containment suit as the boy raced the course. Over and over and over.

Inside the speedboat, Aram would lower himself into the seat, which was halfway below the waterline. The seat had a double-belt that he fastened crisscross over his chest. It reminded him of how Makasa wore her chain, and it made him feel a little like a warrior. As did the helmet Sprocket had given him to wear. “Why do I need this?” Aram had asked.

“In case you crash,” Sprocket answered.

“I’m on the water. If I crash, I get wet. I suppose I might drown, but how does a helmet help with that?”

Sprocket stared at him and said, “You’re a simpleton, Thorne. Put on the helmet.”

“You know, it’s all right to call me Aram.”

“That’s two syllables. Thorne is only one. It’s more efficient.”

“So Aramar is out, then?”

Sprocket ignored him.

Having settled in, Aram would pump a lever until the engine caught and turned over. When it had worked up a head of steam, he’d pull another lever, and the carapace would lower down over his head. When it was nearly shut, he’d pull down hard on a handle until the carapace click-locked into place, sealing him in.

There was a long, slim slot in the carapace that allowed him to see out but wasn’t wide enough for anyone to see him inside the boat from even the smallest distance. So Aram could safely run the course within a few yards of the Speedbarge without any risk of being spotted by Throgg and his very large friends.

Next, Aram would push up on another handle, which Sprocket called a throttle. True to its name, the Steamwhistle would whistle steam as the boat began to accelerate. There was a wheel for steering, smaller than but not unlike the wheel of the Wavestrider, which helmsman Thom Frakes had taught him to use. But because Steamwhistle was smaller and sleeker, it was much more sensitive to the wheel’s spin. One of the first things Aram had to learn was not to oversteer.

Then came the course, which circled Fizzle and Pozzik’s Speedbarge: there were two straightaways to the north and south, and two slaloms between pylons on the eastern and western sides. Aram began to understand why Sprocket had wanted the pilot job so badly. This is so much fun!

The boat flew across the water like a skipping stone. The speed was intoxicating. The fact that Aram controlled the craft’s slightest movement was intoxicating. Swishing back and forth between the pylons was intoxicating. He absolutely, positively loved this.

Every night, they all ate together: Aramar, Makasa, Hackle, Murky, Drella, Gazlowe, and Sprocket. (Daisy and Hotfix stayed away, because the ogres—suspicious of her lie—had begun to follow her. Fortunately, the creatures were too big to make a subtle job of it, so they were an easy tail to spot.)

Gazlowe liked to eat well, so his guests ate well, too. Meals on the yacht were something akin to a feast. There was roast turkey and roast pork. There was raw fish for Murky, and plenty of fruits and vegetables for Drella. Once served, the dryad would pick up her plate and move as far from the leper gnome as she could. Yet throughout the meal, she would periodically start to inch toward Sprocket—then seem to lose her nerve and move away again.

Gazlowe also had a sweet tooth; thus, there was always a whole selection of individual pastries, pies, and cakes for dessert.

On the third night, Gazlowe finished his Dalaran brownie and asked Aram how it was going.

Aram, who had just stuffed an entire bloodberry turnover into his mouth, swallowed and answered, “Great! I think I’ve really got the feel of the Steamwhistle now.”

Gazlowe shot a glance at Sprocket, who somewhat begrudgingly nodded confirmation before using a mechanical arm to open a panel in his suit’s metal chest. He inserted a plum cake and closed the panel. Then through the suit’s glass helmet, Aram could see Sprocket’s actual gnomish hands feeding his face.

Gazlowe turned back to Aram and said, “And you’re learnin’ the course?”

“Better each time.” By the end of the first day, Aram had reduced his time to thirteen minutes and three seconds. By the end of the second day, after nearly one hundred trips around the raceway, he’d gotten it down to twelve minutes even. By the end of the third, eleven minutes thirty-two. A potentially winning time. “I think by race day, I can get under eleven.”

“That’s fantastic,” Gazlowe said. “Now, tomorrow … I want you to slow down.”

“What?”

“There are a lotta folks watchin’ you practice.”

“I know. But the ogres can’t see me inside the boat.”

“I’m not worryin’ ’bout ogres.”

Makasa shot him an angry look.

Gazlowe said, “I mean, I’m not talkin’ ’bout ogres. I’m talkin’ ’bout my competitors and fellow gamblers. Keep gettin’ the feel of the boat and the course, but let’s not give away just how good you think you can be. Hold back now, just a bit. We want to surprise ’em all when it counts.”

Aram nodded, though he was somewhat unsure he’d be able to exercise that much discipline. He liked pushing his time.

Aram took his sketchbook out to continue work on a memory sketch of the goblin and the leper gnome arguing over who would pilot the Steamwhistle, which was visible in the background. Aram had chosen to depict the moment when Daisy intervened between sponsor and engineer, because, well … because he just liked drawing Daisy. And he had stuck little Hotfix in there, too, off to the side. For no good reason, he had drawn Hotfix playing his fiddle, even though the little yellowish-green goblin hadn’t even had his fiddle with him at the time. But Aram liked that he was feeling freer and more imaginative with his sketches. Drawing from memory had become easier, too. Yes, he’d glance up at Sprocket and Gazlowe now and again, and he also referred to the sketch of Daisy and Hotfix he’d already completed. (It was definitely helpful having the reference and two of the subjects currently before him.) For the most part, however, he just drew what he remembered and what he was feeling.

“One more thing,” Gazlowe said. “Tomorrow night …” He hesitated and snuck a glance at Makasa.

“What?” she said darkly.

“Tomorrow night, our pilot needs to board the Speedbarge to officially register for the event.”

“You do it,” Makasa said. “He’s not going anywhere near that barge. And, yes, I am worrying about the ogres.”

“Sprocket and I are goin’, but the boy has to come, too, or we’re disqualified. But it’s routine, and I got just the thing. A hooded cloak I, uh, liberated from an actual member of SI:7. So it’s a real spy cloak. Perfect for the job.” And before Makasa could object again, he added, “We’ll be in and out.”

“Then I’m going with,” she said.

“I don’t got two cloaks,” he said. “And trust me, girl, you do not walk about unnoticed. In fact, you cut quite the figure wherever you go. So you stay behind, or you put the boy at greater risk.”

“His. Name. Is. Aramar.”

“Right, right. I know that.”

“Say it.”

“What? Why?”

“So I know you know he’s a real person. So I know you care enough about him to at least learn his blasted name.”

Gazlowe straightened and stood. He then leaned over the table to look Makasa straight in the eye. He said, “My pilot is Aramar Thorne. And the truth is, I’m kinda fond of the ki—of Aram. I won’t let nothin’ happen to him on the barge. You got my word.”

Makasa considered for a moment what the word of a goblin was truly worth. Then she nodded, satisfied. Satisfied that Gazlowe would make blasted sure nothing happened to Aram … at least, not before the race was run.