“The god Wodin,” the old man was explaining to Tiny, “sacrificed one of his eyes in exchange for wisdom.  That’s why they say insight lies in darkn –”

“That’s enough,” said Tiny, simply.  “Same time tomorrow.”  He finished putting away the black king and few remaining pawns, checked the old man’s chains, and returned topside.  Perhaps uniquely among individuals bearing that particular nickname, Tiny really was small.  The crew of The Wake was, generally speaking, more bulk than brain matter; Tiny liked to think of himself as a balance to some cosmic equation.  He liked to think, period, and was good enough at it to remain with some regularity within the captain’s good graces.

The prisoner was too old to fetch much silver from the auction block and too frail to be of any use on the ship.  Normally, dead weight and a mouth to feed would have gone over the side straight off.  Luckily for him, though, the night when he and a handful of his friends swam from their sinking vessel to a dubious future at Mercator’s mercy, Tiny had noticed the chess set among his meager possessions.  Raphael Mercator had agreed to give him a chance.