"You there! Back to the Maze! There be no easy targets on the wharves!"

Monkel, head of the clan Setmur, turned in astonishment to look for his comrade.A moment ago, the Old Man had been walking quietly by his side. Now, he was sixpaces behind, shouting angrily down a narrow alley between two of the buildingsthat lined the edge of Sanctuary's wharves.

"And don't come back!" the Old Man finished, kicking dirt toward the alleydramatically. "The last bravo we caught got cut up for bait. Hear me? Don't comeback!"

Now Monkel was at his side, craning his neck to peer down the alley. The gap waslittered with barrels and crates, and shrouded with shadows in the dim light ofearly evening. Still, there was some light... but Monkel could see nothingunusual. No figures, not even a glimpse of furtive movement greeted hisunblinking gaze. If nothing else, though, Monkel had learned to trust hisfriend's judgment in detecting danger in this strange new town.

"Makes me mad to see trash like that on our wharf," the Old Man muttered,resuming their walk. "That's the trouble with money, though. As soon as you geta little extra, it draws scum who want to take it away from you."

"I saw nothing. Was someone there?"

"Two of them. Armed," the Old Man said flatly. "I tell you again, you'd bestleam to use those funny eyes of yours if you're going to stay alive in thistown."

Monkel ignored the warning, as he did the friendly jibe at his eyes.

"Two of them? But what would you have done if they had answered your challengeand attacked you?"

A flashing glitter appeared as the Old Man twirled the dagger he had beenpalming.

"Gutted them and sold 'em at the stall." He winked, dropping the weapon backinto its belt scabbard.

"Buthfoofthem..."

The Old Man shrugged.

"I've faced worse odds before. Most people in this town have. That kind isn'tbig on fair fights. Besides, there are two of us."

Monkel was suddenly aware of his own knife, still undrawn in its belt scabbard.The Old Man had insisted that he buy it and wear it at all times. It was not thesort of knife used by men working nets and lines, but a vicious little fightingknife designed for slipping between ribs or slashing at an extended hand orfist. In its own way, it was as fine a tool as a fishing knife, but Monkelhadn't even drawn it.

A wave of fear broke over the little Beysib as he suddenly realized how close hehad just been to being embroiled in a knife-fight. The fear intensified as theknowledge settled on him that, had the fight occurred, it would have been overbefore he could have reacted. Whether he was alive or not at the end would havedepended entirely on the Old Man's skill.

The Old Man seemed to read his thoughts, and laid a reassuring hand on hisshoulder.

"Don't worry," he said. "What's important is the spotting, not the fighting.It's like fishing: If you can't figure out where they are, you can't catch 'em."

"But if they attacked..."

"Show 'em your back and they'll attack. Once you spot 'em, they won't. They'relooking for a victim, not a fight. If you're sober and facing them, they'll fadeback and go looking for easier pickings. Thieves... or assassins. They're allthe same. Just keep your eyes open and you'll be safe. You and yours."

Monkel slowly shook his head, not in disagreement, but in bewilderment. Not ayear of his life had gone by without the passing of a friend, relation, oracquaintance into the shadow realms. Death wore many faces for those whochallenged the sea for a livelihood: a sudden storm, an uncharted sandbar orreef, the attack of a nameless monster from the deep, or even just a carelessmoment leading to an accident. The head of clan Setmur had seen them all beforereaching manhood, much less assuming his current position of leadership, and hethought he was accustomed to the shadow of death which haunted those of hisprofession. "We pay for the catch in blood," was an idiom he had used as oftenas he had heard it.

Violent death, however, the act of murder or assassination, was new to him. Thecasualness with which the people of this new land fought or defended themselveswas beyond his comprehension. That was what frightened him the most; not theviolence, but his newfound friends' easy acceptance of it. They no morequestioned or challenged the existence of random violence than they did thetides or sunset. It was a constant in this Old Man's world... a world that wasnow his own as well.

The Old Man's comment about assassins was not lost on Monkel. Too many Beysibwere being killed-so many that not even the most callous citizen of Sanctuarycould pretend it was random violence. Someone, or perhaps a group of someones,was actively hunting the immigrants. Clan Burek was being hit harder than hisown clan Setmur, and the theories to explain this oddity were many: the Burekwere richer and drew more attention from the local cutthroats; they were moreinclined to venture into the town at night than the fisher-folk of clan Setmur;and their arrogance and pride made them more susceptible to being lured intofights against the Beysa's orders. While Monkel acknowledged these reasons andagreed with them to a limited extent, he felt there were also other factors tobe considered. His lessons from the Old Man in basic street survival, which hehad, in turn, passed on to his clan, had much to do with Setmur's low casualtyrate. And perhaps most important was the local fishing community's acceptance ofthe clan, a phenomenon Monkel had grown to appreciate more" and more as timewore on. As a result of his appreciation, he had privately decided to expand hisduties as clan head to include doing everything in his power to further thefriendships between his people and the locals, whether it involved endorsing aboat-building project or simply accompanying the Old Man on his weekly visit tothe Wine Barrel, as he was doing tonight.

The Wine Barrel had changed, even during Monkel's brief time in town. Much ofthe new money in Sanctuary was being tunneled into its only readily expandablefood source-the waterfront. The fishing community was enjoying an unprecedentedaffluence, and it was only to be expected that a portion of that wealth would bespent at their favorite gathering point and tavern, the Wine Barrel.

Once a rickety wharfside dive, the Wine Barrel had been upgraded to nearrespectability. Chairs purchased secondhand from a bordello had replaced themismatched benches and crates that once adorned the place, and years of grimewere beginning to give way to a once-a-month, top-to-bottom scrubbing; still,some of the old traditions remained.

As Monkel followed the Old Man into the tavern, he noted several of his clansmenscattered through the room, all sitting with other Beysib, but thereunchallenged nonetheless. There was one table, however, none of them sat at...in fact, no Sanctuary fishermen sat at without an invitation. That was the tablethat exploded with noise upon their entrance.

"It's about time. Old Man!"

"We already drank your share. You'll have to order more."

"Hey, Monkel. Can't you get the Old Man to walk any faster? The streets aredangerous to those who dawdle."

Sitting at their table were the elite of Sanctuary's fishing community, thesenior captains of which the Old Man was the unofficial leader. It was nodifferent from the other tables, but because they sat there, the service wasquicker and their drinks arrived in portions noticeably larger than those servedat other tables.