The Salt-Glass Lens

The buyer is a gnome lens grinder with a jeweler's loupe on her forehead. She counts the glass blanks and holds one to the light. "These are for a long-range spyglass the Excise has outlawed. I still need a ship to salvage the brass frame for it—do that, and we'll share what the finished lens is worth."

The shipping agent had good reason to watch the street. An out-of-uniform Excise inspector falls into step beside you on the dock. "That lens grinder just sent you after outlawed salvage. Tell me what and where, and I'll pay you silver on the spot. Or keep your mouth shut and walk away. Just don't lie to me—that'll cost you."

A clerk signs for the case without opening it. "These lenses are for tracking the storm front from leagues away," he explains, nodding toward the spiral stairs leading up into the dome. "They're mounting them in the great telescope right now. Head on up—the chief astronomer likes to pay couriers in person."

The wrecked survey kite hangs tangled in its own rigging on the rock spire, its silk sails torn to ribbons. The heavy brass ring is still bolted to its frame—but an armed Excise cutter is climbing the far side of the spire.

Through the new lenses, the distant storm front looks like a towering gray wall with ships fleeing before it—clear enough to count. The astronomer steps back from the telescope. "We have a spare ranging eyepiece if you want to outfit your own ship. Or I can pay you in silver and copy our hazard sightings onto your chart."

Too impatient to wait at port, the gnome grinder has followed you out in a hired skiff. She taps the big salt-glass lens into the brass ring with a small jeweler's hammer. "Half yours, like I promised. Do you want the mounted spyglass for your ship, or half the silver from selling it?"