Listen, something billed as “for fans of Our Flag Means Death” goes to snag our consideration—however when it’s describing the newest from A Taste of Iron and Gold creator Alexandra Rowland, our curiosity turns into much more intense. io9 has the cowl and an unique excerpt to share from Running Close to the Wind, the creator’s 2024 queer pirate fantasy journey.
Here’s an outline of Running Close to the Wind:
Avra Helvaçi, former area agent of the Araşti Ministry of Intelligence, has unintentionally stolen the single costliest secret in the world—and the solely place to flee with a secret that massive is the open sea.
To discover a purchaser with deep sufficient pockets, Avra should ask for assist from his on-again, off-again ex, the pirate Captain Teveri az-Ḥaffār. They are removed from joyful to see him, however collectively, they hatch a plan: take the data to the remoted pirate republic of the Isles of Lost Souls, fence it, revenue. The solely issues of their manner? A calculating new Araşti ambassador to the Isles of Lost Souls who’s acquired his eyes on Avra’s each transfer; Brother Julian, an attractive, mysterious new member of the crew with secrets and techniques of his personal and a frankly inconvenient vow of celibacy; the undeniable fact that they’re crusing straight into sea serpent breeding season and virtually sure doom.
But if they’ll discover a manner to survive and promote the secret on the black market, they’ll all be as rich as kings—and, extra essential, they’ll be legends.
Check out the full cowl (artwork and design by Christine Foltzer), and revel in the excerpt beneath! Running Close to the Wind releases June 11, 2024, and you may pre-order a replica right here.
As quickly as he noticed that ship come over the horizon, Avra Helvaçi mentioned, “Eeee,” scurried to his tiny cabin so he can be safely out from underfoot, shut the door, sat on the bunk together with his little rucksack clasped in his lap, and started to mentally compose and rehearse the apology he would imminently want to current, if solely to maintain himself from being shoved overboard and left for useless. Again.
After just a few moments of silence, he fumbled in his rucksack and pulled a single card from his deck of Heralds.
The Broken Quill: Damaged strains of communication; frustration will break delicate issues.
Bit on the nostril, actually, and nothing he didn’t already know.
He tucked it away, clasped his arms tight between his knees so he wouldn’t vibrate out of his pores and skin, and went again to visualizing minute variations of his apology. Teveri deserved solely the finest, after all.
Once The Running Sun overtook them, the relaxation was a fast affair. Avra prided himself on a single scanty fistful of widespread sense, and he was relatively happy to have accurately assessed the captain of this vessel as a person too wise to put up a lot of a combat when boarded by pirates.
As the clamor and fuss on deck got here to a decision, Avra bounced his knee and hummed a nervous little tune to himself, one in every of his personal compositions, and continued reflecting upon his predicament. Did he recollect what Teveri had been mad about final time? No. Tev was at all times mad about one thing. Who might presumably maintain observe of Avra’s varied wrongs?
He would apologize properly for as many issues as he might consider, then, and that may clean any still-ruffled feathers. Definitely.
And if not, effectively . . . It was far preferable to die at Teveri az-Ḥaffār’s hand than . . . the present most possible different. He tried not to take into consideration that.
The noise quieted marginally, which meant that Captain Veris’s crew had surrendered and that The Running Sun’s crew would now take stock. They’d search the maintain and every cabin, and finally . . .
Someone—a giant, brawny, sweaty somebody with the sleeves ripped off his shirt and tattoos down his arms—shouldered Avra’s door open.
“Ah! Oskar!” Avra mentioned, barely manic. He pasted a delighted smile throughout his face. “It’s been too long!”
Oskar, Teveri’s second-mate, stared at him. “Aw, fuck,” he groaned. “No, no, no.”
Avra pouted. “Are you not pleased to see me? I missed you terribly.”
“No no no no,” Oskar mentioned, backing out of the room. “No, no, no.”
“What’s the matter?” mentioned a well-recognized voice from behind Oskar.
“No,” Oskar moaned once more. “Fuck.”
“You seem a bit concerned,” Avra mentioned. “Not to worry! I have a plan.”
“Nooo,” mentioned Oskar.
“I,” Avra introduced grandly, “am going to say sorry! Then all will be well, and Tev will forgive me.”
Another face poked round the doorway—a girl towards the finish of center age, with steel-grey hair cropped shut to her scalp and darkish pores and skin weathered by solar and salt and wind.
“Markefa!” Avra beamed. The delicate frown on Markefa’s face melted into poleaxed astonishment. “What a nice surprise! You were talking so much about retirement last time, I was all prepared to find you’d gone ashore for good. How’s the leg? All healed up? How’s the family?”
“Ah, fuck,” mentioned Markefa.
“You know, I really think you’re both overreacting just a little teensy bit, maybe,” mentioned Avra. “Listen, though, I can’t decide—do you think Tev would like it if you delivered me to them hogtied?”
***
“Hello, incandescent one,” Avra mentioned adoringly, mendacity hogtied at Teveri’s ft on the deck of their ship.
The Running Sun was a carrack of three masts, someplace between meh and first rate in high quality: On the upside, she had been designed by the Shipbuilder’s Guild of Araşt to its famously exacting requirements, together with quality-control inspection, certification, and her inaugural hull-painting, although that had lengthy since worn off. On the draw back, due to the circumstances round how Teveri az-Ḥaffār had develop into captain, all the different pirates sneered and mentioned imply issues about how the ship was cursed or haunted or what-have-you. This made the crew a bit collectively defensive, in Avra’s opinion, and it was one in every of the many, many issues Teveri was mad about.
Once, Avra had barely talked about the rumors and tales of how Teveri had acquired the ship. Teveri had instantly dragged him by his hair out of each mattress and the afterglow and had thrown him bodily out of the cabin, adopted by his trousers and boots. He couldn’t show that they’d aimed for his head, however the suspicion was actually there.
“Before we say anything else,” he started in his politest tones, “I want to express my deepest and sincerest apologies. I see now that I have behaved in an ungentlemanly manner. I have been an outright blackguard. A cur. A cad. Not to mention disrespectful, impolite, and indeed both churlish and childish. Moreover, I have been that greatest of reprobates—a flibbertigibbet. Not a moment has passed that I have not regretted every aspect of our last parting. I have torn my hair over it. I have lost sleep over it. I ache with remorse. On my honor, such as it is, I shall be a good and sweet little Avra henceforth, particularly if you could maybe see your way to not putting me in a rowboat in the middle of the ocean and sailing off without even a wave of a handkerchief in farewell.” Again. “I must say it’s good to see you, though. You look ravishing in those boots. Are they new?”
Teveri kicked him sharply in the abdomen. Frankly, it was an honor. “How are you alive?”
“Got lucky,” he wheezed. “Tev, light of my life—”
Another sharp kick. It was considerably much less of an honor (although the boots have been nonetheless ravishing).
“I won’t do it again!” Avra squeaked. “I’m sorry! You’re completely right to still be angry at me. I too would still be angry at me! I gave you a tip-off for what was probably a wild-goose chase, and then when you tracked me down to very correctly take vengeance upon me for wasting your time, I didn’t even—”
“You think I bothered following your stupid little hunch, Avra?” Teveri snarled. “Stupid, incoherent, written on the back of a napkin—”
Avra wriggled valiantly and managed to tip himself upright with a little bit “hrgkgh” of effort, which he hoped got here throughout as endearing, and pouted up at them. “You didn’t go on my wild-goose chase? I really don’t know what else you have to be mad at me about, then. Maybe you should apologize too—if I didn’t do anything, then your response was maybe a little disproportionate—”
Teveri’s black proper eye flashed with fury, even brighter than the gold orb that changed the left. “Your motherfucking song.”
“The s— Ohhh, the song.” Avra organized his face into the most plaintive expression in his stock. “You didn’t like the song? I thought it was a good song. Complimentary, even.” Some of his finest work, actually. He’d rhymed “strap-on” with “denouement” and had thought himself very intelligent. He’d added seventeen extra verses to it in the time that it had taken to get a fortunate rescue from that rowboat Tev had marooned him in.
The scarred aspect of the captain’s mouth snarled, baring their enamel. Gods, Tev was magnificent.
“Ah,” he mentioned. “Aha. Well . . .” Shit, he hadn’t ready for this one. “No accounting for taste,” he mentioned brightly. “Wait, fuck, no, that’s wrong. Didn’t mean that—” He flung himself apart with a excessive “reeeee!” of alarm, and Teveri’s subsequent kick simply missed him. “It was supposed to be a nice song! I told everyone in that bar that your ship definitely isn’t haunted or anything, and that you’re great at both pirating and fucking! And that the only marginally spooky thing about you, since your ship is incredibly non-haunted, is that you’ve got a box full of terrifying spooky dildos!” He gave Teveri a limpid look up by his eyelashes. “I thought you’d like it. I thought it would help your reputation. Should I have not mentioned your box of spooky dildos? Won’t do it again. Honest, Tev.”
“The sea will boil before a single honest word falls from your tongue,” Teveri mentioned, aiming one other kick at him, which he rolled to dodge with one other “reee!!!” which he thought gave him a relatively pathetic air. Tev wouldn’t kick a person who made undignified noises when threatened, would they? It can be beneath them.
Very few issues have been beneath Captain Teveri az-Ḥaffār, because it turned out. The subsequent kick landed proper on Avra’s bum.
He groaned in defeat (and ache), rolled onto his again, and tried to maximize the limpidness of his pleading gaze. “Tev—”
“Call me that again, I fucking dare you.”
“Captain az-Ḥaffār,” he amended. “Let’s talk about this. I’m sorry about the song. Though you should know that lots of people told me it was surprisingly sexy! Well, technically they said ‘unexpectedly sexual,’ but the tone was ambiguous. Never mind that! If you don’t like it, then every word of it is as ashes in my mouth! I can write you a new song. A new, different, better song. I’ve recently quit my dayjob to pursue my poetry, you see, so I have quite a lot of free time!”
Teveri put their arms on their hips and their head a bit on one aspect. “What do we have that’s sticky? Just pitch for the hull, no?”
“What are you wanting sticky shit for, Tev?” Avra requested suspiciously.
“Tarring-and-feathering you.”
“But I don’t want to be tarred-and-feathered.”
“Just pitch, Captain. We’ve got some extra from their stores,” Markefa referred to as from the rail the place the crew was hauling the final of the contents of the different ship’s maintain into theirs on platforms hung from ropes and pulleys at the ends of the yardarms. The different crew had been launched and was already scurrying to get their sails so as and run away earlier than The Running Sun determined to take the rest from them. “Do you want to use some of this straw instead of tearing up one of those nice pillows we took from the captain’s cabin?”
Teveri seethed. “We might as well.” To nobody specifically, they snapped, “Why do these people have a hold full of fucking straw and nothing else?”
“Fancy hats,” mentioned Avra promptly.
Teveri appeared down at him with an expression of exasperation so profound it was almost sorrow. “What?”
“It’s for fancy hats,” he chirped. “I asked too. Fashion for fancy hats in Map Sut this year, the captain told me. But to make them, they need this particular kind of braided straw, and the place that does the braiding isn’t the same as the place where that specific variety of rye grows, so they have to import it. Hold full of cheap straw, take it to whatsits-place and pay to get it all braided, haul the spools of braid off to Map Sut, sell them for a fat profit. That’s called a good return on investment, Tev. It is a solemn thing of great reverence where I come from, you know. Please respect my culture.” Teveri pinched the bridge of their nostril once more and breathed a number of instances.
“Don’t grind your teeth,” Avra reminded them helpfully. “Remember what that dentist said? He was far more spooky than you, by the way. Remember he said you had to stop grinding or you’d crack one. Anyway, it’s quite nice straw. Nicest straw I’ve ever seen, anyway, not that I know anything about . . . straw.” He paused. “Maybe not what you were hoping to score, though. You seem grouchy about it. Are you having money problems again?” Teveri feinted one other kick at him—Avra didn’t see why that deserved a kick, however he obligingly made one other pathetic, undignified sound.
The Running Sun was almost at all times having cash issues. Ships took a number of maintenance, and crews wanted a number of meals, after which there have been issues like the pension fund for any of the crew who acquired injured or killed . . . Money was by no means actually good on a pirate ship, and The Running Sun had by no means managed a very massive rating—which solely performed into the rumors that the ship was cursed.
As quickly as Avra moseyed previous that thought, his mind pounced, supplying some lightning-fast calculations: It was awfully late in the season for The Running Sun to be out on the water—there was solely a fortnight or so till the sea serpents rose from the abyssal depths for his or her breeding season, making the open ocean too harmful for anybody sane to danger crusing into blue water for a minimum of six weeks. (That is, until they have been an Araşti crew on an Araşti ship . . . and in possession of what was in the little rucksack Avra had been clutching for the previous two days.) The ship they’d simply captured was just a few days out from the port they deliberate to shelter in, however The Running Sun ought to have been a lot farther south—both already anchored protected in the Isles of Lost Souls or a minimum of making her manner there earlier than the water frothed up into terrifying swarms of enamel and . . . effectively, largely enamel. So many enamel. Teeth and sexy rage.
There was no probability that the crew can be planning to anchor some place else—different captains might need contacts in safe ports that may enable them to shelter there if want be, however not Teveri az-Ḥaffār . . . And of all the pirates Avra was acquainted with, there was neither captain nor crew who would voluntarily spend the season of serpents away from the Isles of Lost Souls. It was a vital and unmissable alternative to be seen by the different crews, to brag and boast and bolster one’s fame in pirate society (such because it was), to make offers and alliances, to get even for previous slights, to get your self employed by a brand new ship if the previous one not suited . . . And there was the enjoyable and spectacle of all the festivities, after all. As far as Avra was involved, the solely individuals who would voluntarily miss the cake competitors have been the ones who didn’t learn about it.
In conclusion: The Running Sun will need to have cash issues, and the crew, dealing with the prospect of a six-week enforced vacation they have been too poor to take pleasure in, will need to have voted to strive for one final rating to fill their coffers earlier than they flew again to the Isles, most likely reaching port simply as the sea was due to develop into . . . unpleasantly teethy.
Avra didn’t like the thought of being tarred-and-feathered—or tarred-and-strawed, for that matter—and summarily marooned once more, particularly when most of the different boats that might have coincidentally rescued him have been already discovering protected harbor and settling in for the serpent season.
He glanced down at his little rucksack, which held the complete motive that he had been ready to give up his dayjob as a area agent of the Araşti Ministry of Intelligence so as to pursue his poetry profession. Offering to share it could virtually actually absolve him of being tarred-and-feathered and left for useless, as a result of promoting the contents would remedy The Running Sun’s cash issues 100 instances over. A thousand. At that time, they could as effectively all retire and purchase charming villas someplace on the coast of Pezia.
He hadn’t fully determined whether or not he was going to promote it—it would be an unconscionable sum of money. The thought of sharing that sum of money with the crew was a a lot simpler determination to make. He glanced up at the rigging, at the mainsail . . .
The actually priceless mainsail. It technically belonged to him. Technically. He’d gained it off one other captain in a card sport, years and years in the past. He most likely might have give up his dayjob proper then, however promoting it hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d given it to Tev with no second thought, as a result of . . . Well, as a result of what was the level of getting cash should you didn’t have mates? There was a distinction between Tev being mad at him for one thing and Tev actually by no means forgiving him, in any case, and promoting that mainsail simply to line his personal pockets would have performed it. It would have been disrespectful, bordering on sacrilegious, and there have been issues that even Avra had to take critically. That mainsail, for one. Also the cake competitors. And . . . what would occur if anybody from Araşt discovered what Avra had taken.
He appeared down at his little rucksack once more. Sharing the wealth additionally meant sharing the hazard. He’d been leaning away from the thought of promoting it as a result of serious about the potential penalties made him need to throw up, and since he did pleasure himself on one single scanty fistful of widespread sense, which had recommended to him two days in the past that the sensible plan was to hightail it out of Araşt at high pace, cowl his tracks by being captured by pirates, faux his personal loss of life, change his title, transfer to one other nation the place nobody knew him, discover a low-cost boardinghouse that may hire him a grubby room with a unfastened floorboard he might stuff his spoils below, stay out the remainder of his days eking out a residing together with his poetry and searching over his shoulder for assassins from the Ministry of Intelligence, and by no means inform anybody about what he’d performed.
Well, that was the second smartest plan. The first was to instantly burn all the papers and maintain his mouth shut, however each time he’d thought-about that, he’d thought, But what if I want it sooner or later, what if I would like it to bribe somebody not to kill me?
He hadn’t anticipated that sooner or later to occur this quickly.
Two of the crew rolled a barrel of tar over to Tev, and one other individual—a newcomer, as Avra didn’t acknowledge them—guided the loading platform onto the deck and swung off one in every of the bales of straw. Avra wriggled fiercely, however Oskar and Markefa’s knots have been, after all, impeccable.
***
Avra couldn’t fairly bear to play his trump card but. Never thoughts the cash or the potential penalties—the easy idea of different folks realizing about it was nonetheless too large and nauseating to ponder. He compromised with himself and determined to strive another spherical of cajoling. “Listen, let’s not do this!” he mentioned loudly. “You’ll probably get tar all over the deck, and I will be a truly pathetic sight during the whole process—you’ll all be very embarrassed to know me!”
Teveri drew one in every of their knives and slashed the strings binding the bale collectively. Fragments of straw fell free, standing out in opposition to the worn, greyish deck in shards of a shiny silver-gold that shone prettily in the solar and will need to have made for a really positive hat.
“You know, on balance, I don’t think we should give him one of our rowboats this time,” Teveri introduced, viciously demolishing the tight bale right into a unfastened, shining pile. “I think we should just toss him in.”
“Reeee,” Avra mentioned piteously, but it surely made no distinction. “But what if I suddenly prove terribly useful?”
“Oh, trust me, this whole situation is going to be very useful to me later tonight when I’m getting myself off to the thought of finally being rid of you. Markefa, open up that barrel.”
“Aye, Captain,” Markefa mentioned complacently, and started to work it open together with her massive knife.
The black, sizzling scent of tar trickled into Avra’s nostril. “Tev, Tev, Tev. Teveri. Captain az-Ḥaffār. Do not cover me in tar, please, we should probably talk first, I have a really neat thing to tell you about, I swear on my own dick that I’ve got something unbelievably nifty—”
Markefa paused, the lid half-pried off, and raised an eyebrow at the captain.
“What?” Teveri snapped.
“Swears on his own dick, Captain,” she mentioned, a little bit reproachful. “Oughta hear a man out when he swears on his own dick, no?”
Teveri glared. They have been fairly-well lined in straw—there have been fragments of it clinging to their entrance and the stained threadbare sleeves of their shirt, items of it scattered by their hair, shards of it caught to their golden-brown pores and skin.
Ah, gods above and beneath, however they have been splendid, even with their darkish hair all ratty and mussed from battle, most of it stringy and half-damp with sweat, the relaxation windblown, gritty, and uninteresting from the build-up of salt spray.
So truly type of disgusting, actually, however . . . ah, simply splendid, even so.
Teveri turned their glare onto him and snarled, “You have sixty seconds. Only because Markefa asked. Say thank you to Markefa.”
“Thank you, Markefa,” Avra squeaked.
Teveri crossed their arms and stared down at him, emotionless past a crisp air of expectation.
After just a few moments, Avra mentioned, “Oh, shit, did my time already start? You didn’t say my time already started!”
“Oh boy,” mentioned Markefa.
“So it’s kind of a long story,” Avra babbled as quick as he might, “and really it’d land better if you were to hear the whole thing, because you’d probably think it was really funny—but, ah, right, to summarize it in an efficient, sixty-second sort of way—less than sixty seconds, really, because you didn’t tell me my time started—anyway, the short version! So you remember ages ago when we went to Quassa sai Bendra and that thing happened, and everybody got huffy and called me a cheater ’cause I kept winning at card games, and then those other things happened and everybody got superstitious and called me a witch ’cause lucky shit kept happening to me, and I kept saying, ‘What, that’s stupid, I’m not a witch, my luck is normal’? Well, after the friendly misunderstanding wherein you marooned me at sea because of that very bad and inappropriate song I wrote—after that I sort of, well, ahaha, I sort of felt as though getting rescued from certain death by a ship conveniently bound for Araşt was the sort of suspiciously good fortune that was worth thinking about, and I said to myself, ‘What if I tried poking my weirdly good luck a little bit, just to see what happens, maybe I’ll just do a couple fun little experiments like a natural philosopher—’”
“Time’s up,” Teveri mentioned flatly, and moved towards the barrel of pitch.
“I copied a bunch of secret papers from the headquarters of the Araşti Shipbuilder’s Guild in Kasaba City and I have them with me right now!” Avra shrieked.
Teveri paused.
The complete deck went useless silent however for the sound of the water in opposition to the hull and the creak of the rigging in the wind.
“Good papers! Important papers! They were locked in a safe!” Avra panted, wriggling energetically away from the barrel of tar. “There was an incident where somebody tried to break into the Guild—let’s not get into it, actually, not important—I just wanted to see how far my luck went! Answer: Pretty fucking far, actually! And at this juncture, I would like to tactfully point out that if I were to be shown some affection and generosity—for example, by not being dumped overboard—then I would absolutely feel inclined to reciprocate that affection and generosity by . . . by sharing? Sharing what I have? Equal shares! And maybe we can talk it through as a crew and someone more sensible than me can figure out how we can all be rich and, crucially, not dead?”
The complete deck was nonetheless completely nonetheless and silent—he had everybody’s consideration. Maybe this was not enough to atone for his crimes. Maybe it was actually all the extra motive to dump him overboard. he flicked his eyes up, deliberate, to The Running Sun’s glittering cloth-of-silver mainsail.
That sail was a big a part of why the crew had put up with him for thus a few years, and why he was fairly fucking assured they, with this little reminder, would intervene on his behalf if Tev stored refusing to be cheap.
It had been his eerie luck working throughout that card sport too, hadn’t it? No one simply swanned into the Isles of Lost Souls, anchored in Scuttle Cove, went for a drink at the Crowned Skull, challenged Captain Luchenko of the Merry Maid to a sport of cube, gained with out shedding even a single copper piece of any nation’s forex, and walked away with one in every of the best prizes ever gained in that dingy bar.
No one did that.
But Avra had performed it.
Avra appeared up at the silver sail, by far the greatest surviving relic of the legendary Nightingale, and listened to the crew fidget and shift on their ft as the reminder sank in. He added, just a bit further nudge, “I’m ever so inclined to be generous to friends—family—who have been so generous to me. Who’s to say how much these papers could sell for? Lots of stuff you can buy with an unimaginable mountain of money. Probably still have some left over. You could spread it out on a bed and roll around naked on it. Could do all sorts of things with that much money.” He paused once more. “Whats-his-name, Captain Ueleari—doesn’t he have a standing offer to sell the Nightingale relics he’s got? What was it—the mizzen royal and the flag for the bargain price of one million Araşti altınlar? Imagine. Imagine having the mizzen royal, the mainsail, and the flag of the Nightingale, and still having enough money left over that you’re sleeping and swiving on gold and picking silver and copper out of your asscrack.”
The crew stirred once more. Avra glanced at Tev, who was grinding their enamel with no regard for the recommendation of spooky dentists, after which at Markefa, who was giving the captain important appears.
“It’d do a great deal to ease the sting of this bullshit,” Markefa murmured with an virtually invisible nod to the straw. “Go a long way to making everybody feel better about the two last month as well.”
“What were the two last month?” Avra requested.
“Boxes of fucking rank swamp muck from Kaskinen, bound for Heyrland. Didn’t see the point of taking anything from them but their food and supplies.”
“Wow,” mentioned Avra. “Bad luck. So fancy straw’s kind of a step up at the moment, huh? Well, fancy straw and your favorite poet in the whole wide world and a bunch of papers constituting what is very possibly the most expensive secret in recorded history. Well, half of it,” he lied shortly as the thought occurred to him that “your favorite poet in the whole wide world” was the type of cargo which might and arguably ought to get thrown overboard. “The other half is in my head. So you’ve got to keep me alive if you want it to be worth anything at all.” A basic gambit, but it surely was a basic for a motive.
Tev grimaced. “Put the tar away, and throw this motherfucker in the rope locker. Don’t untie him. I haven’t fucking decided what I want to do with him. And don’t,” they added in a snarl, loud sufficient for the complete crew to hear, “do not speak to me about him, do not mention him to me, and I fucking dare you to hum even one bar of that song.” They glared fiercely—fierce sufficient that a number of of the crew in the rapid neighborhood muttered about not being that sexy for a combat.
“The rope locker!” Avra mentioned in the meantime. “My old friend the rope locker! Cozy! Oskar, carry me gently, alright? You were so rough a minute ago, and I bruise so easily. I’m delicate, Oskar, you know I’m delicate—”
Excerpt from Alexandra Rowland’s Running Close to the Wind reprinted by permission of Tor.
Running Close to the Wind by Alexandra Rowland might be out June 11, 2024; pre-order right here.
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