Silver tongues have met in shade, their ledgers smeared with dread;
They plot to hush the helm they fear before his words are said.

When quarter-moon cuts razor-thin and gulls grow strangely still,
Their quiet blades will seek a throat that truth could yet fulfil.

Return to that weather-worn crate where tide keeps quiet ward;
Leave neither seal nor signet there; let silence be your guard.

One month and a single harbour chime; if lanterns fail to gleam,
Come back with dusk, and dusk once more, until I cross the seam.

For voices wrapped in coin and cloth would sink what we would save;
We answer not with louder shouts, but with the calm and brave.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Phaestian, in the year 986 AF.