The jet-black skiff cut across the chop, the motor buzzing with a harsh, high rattle. Brio, still dripping from his plunge, sat between two hulking men whose faces remained obscured by tactical masks. The pilot, thick-shouldered beneath a tactical vest, kept a firm grip on the tiller. Brio, however, wasn’t focused on his captors. He was frowning at the boat itself. “She rattles, doesn’t she?” Brio called out over the drone. He tapped the fiberglass beside his knee. “And that’s not the purr of balanced cylinders. That’s material stress. You’ve got a low-modulus resin here, probably a polyester blend. Good for a fishing skiff, maybe. Not for high-speed evasion.” The pilot glanced over his shoulder through the slit of his hood, his knuckles going white against the throttle. One of the hulking men beside Brio shifted, a hand moving towards his belt. “No, no, don’t misunderstand,” Brio chuckled, holding up a hand, water sluicing off his palm. “I’m just saying, for a professional outfit, you’d expect a carbon fiber laminate, or at least an epoxy vinyl ester. Something with a higher tensile strength. This? This’ll crack under sustained pressure, especially at these speeds. Cheap fiberglass makes noise, you see.” His captors exchanged glances. The pilot stared, head tilted sideways. Was their captive truly critiquing their getaway vehicle’s construction materials? Brio, oblivious to their confusion, leaned in, examining a rivet. “And the finish! Is that an aliphatic urethane? It’s going to yellow in the sun. You want a polyaspartic for marine applications, much better UV resistance.” The pilot drew breath to shout, but a low whine rose over the water. Two Cazar Estate hydrofoils, sleek silver arrows, materialized from the darkness, their powerful searchlights sweeping the water. The skiff banked hard, its outboard screaming as the transom bucked against the swell. “See?” Brio said with a triumphant grin, pointing. “Just as I thought. Structural integrity already compromised. You should really invest in better equipment, lads. For your own safety.” The hydrofoils closed in, spotlights blinding. A voice boomed over a loudspeaker, demanding surrender. The pilot hesitated, glancing between the patrol craft and Brio, who was waving two hands in greeting. Swearing under his breath, the pilot yanked the kill switch. The silence was sudden, jarring. Within minutes, crew hands hoisted Brio over the gunwale of a hydrofoil, salt water streaming from his wool jumper and mud-stained gumboots. He extended a dripping hand to the officer on deck, whose lapel tag read Remus. “Good evening, Remus. “Good show, Captain! Next time, maybe a quad-rotor drone for pursuit? Quicker over the swells.” Remus merely grunted, guiding him down the gangway toward a shoreline vehicle. An hour later, the main house loomed above the cliffs: pale fluted columns, towering limestone terraces, and floodlit porticos. Inside, cool jade floor slabs stretched beneath vaulted archways. Servants, dressed in impeccable charcoal uniforms, moved with silent efficiency. Brio, however, refused to take off his rubber boots, leaving faint, watery tracks on the ancient stone. He padded through the hushed halls, a cheerful anachronism, chatting amiably with a maid polishing a bronze bust, asking her about the cleaning products she preferred. “Hard soles keep the sharp edges off your instep,” he told a house steward proffering velvet slippers. “Tough enough for shell beds, soft enough for stairs.” Talia found him in the Cazar Private Museum, a cavernous space filled with antiquities glowing under specialized lighting. She had changed into a tailored silk blouse and trousers, her expression a study in contained fury. He was standing before a display case containing what the plaque declared was a Ming Dynasty ‘Dragon’s Breath’ vase, its porcelain a vibrant cobalt and white. Brio turned his curved shucking blade in his fingers, tapping the reinforced pane with the pearwood handle. “You,” Talia said, her voice striking the stone pillars. “You work the coastal flats. A common deckhand. Yet the vault declared you blood heir. Explain it.” Brio turned, his smile undimmed. “Oh, that? Caught everybody off guard, didn’t it?” He shrugged, completely unconcerned by her intensity. He gestured with his knife towards the vase. “This, though. This is interesting.” Talia narrowed her eyes, ignoring his deflection. “Don’t try to change the subject. That vault uses biometric identification. There’s no margin for error. How could you possibly be–” “The glaze,” Brio interrupted, tapping the glass again. “It’s too perfect. Too smooth, even for a piece restored this well. See the slight almost-plastic sheen under the light? And the way the cobalt pigment seems to sit *on* the surface, rather than being truly fused into the porcelain body?” He leaned closer, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Give me a second.” He pulled a small, almost imperceptible vial from his pocket – the kind used for sampling water quality in his village – and touched a droplet to the tip of his blade. In three fluid motions, he slipped the latch pins, slid his hand under the optical sensors, and opened the glass. Talia gasped, moving forward to stop him, but Brio was quicker. He gently scraped a microscopic flake from an inconspicuous part of the vase’s base. He sniffed it. Then, he touched his knife to his tongue. Talia stared, appalled. “Are you mad? That’s a priceless artifact!” Brio chewed thoughtfully. “Definitely not lead-based silicate. Too resilient. And the way it dissolves… hmm.” He licked his lips. “Methyl methacrylate. Or a very similar acrylic copolymer. Synthetic resin. Modern. It’s a very good fake, Talia. Not a genuine Ming glaze at all.” He gave her a cheerful, knowing look. “Someone put a lot of effort into making this piece look like a Cazar original. But it’s a modern fraud. Quite a clever one, too. But a fraud nonetheless.” Talia stood frozen, her sharp mind scrambling to catch up. A fake? This supposedly priceless artifact, the centerpiece of Vanto’s collection, was a forgery? And this wharf rat had diagnosed the chemistry with the tip of his tongue. She studied his profile, noting the relaxed slant of his shoulders. No simple boatman spoke of acrylic copolymers so easily. Before she could articulate her thoughts, the grand doors to the museum burst open. Vanto Cazar stormed in, flanked by three attorneys in dark wool and six armed estate guards. Vanto leaned forward, pale skin flushed crimson at the cheekbones, leveling an index finger at Brio’s dripping steel. “There he is! The imposter! Arrest him immediately! That vault, it malfunctioned! A glitch in the biometric system, nothing more! This man is a corporate spy, a saboteur, attempting to seize control of my family’s assets!”

The Rule of Provenance