That suspect had kept him longer than he’d hoped. By the time the pier was in sight, a storm was whipping up. The news had not predicted rain.

He would not have worn one of his better fake mustaches out had the news predicted such.

Did he still have time to hit the docks? He supposed he had foregone a wig, and this hat was well-fitted.

There was a man pulling fishing net, and thus far it was just wind. Well, mostly wind. A quick question, and then he could hurry off.

“Excuse me, sir!” Aslan called in a bit posher an accent than one might expect from these parts, looking a good deal older than he actually was.

Allah Allah. He hoped Nisa paid little attention to where her makeup went.

“My son was by here – little shorter than you, but not by much! Blue eyes, bushy brows, could wrestle an ox one-armed! Seen him?”