Seeing the skinny man was a full furrow and a half further across the reckal patch than he was, Kheda bit down on any reply and crushed an errant seedling between finger and thumb, a smear of green adding to the soil stains on his hands. Then he tried to pick up his pace but Shap was a full two furrows further across the vegetable patch than he was when they finally met.

'You take that lot to the hen run.' Shap stood up and groaned, digging a hand into the small of his arched back, shoulder blades sharply pointed, every bone in his spine clearly visible. 'I'll see what the lady thinks we've earned. Get the bowls.'

Kheda scooped up the heap of discarded weeds. The hens plainly knew what was coming; setting up a shrill clucking that brought the dog to its feet, alert for any suggestion that the fowl were being stolen.

'Empty hands, see?' Kheda spread them out for the dog and then offered one, palm down, to the brindled beast. It gave a perfunctory sniff and then sat on its haunches, allowing him to retrieve their gear, ears still pricked as it watched Kheda rejoin Shap by the house.

'You've got bowls of your own?' The woman of the house was waiting with a burnished copper cook pot, ladle poised impatiently. From the way she carried the pot, it wasn't hot. Kheda and Shap both rummaged hastily to find their bowls.

The broth left from last night's stewed duck eked out with a few left-over vegetables and thickened with the dust from the bottom of the sailer crock, Janne Daish wouldn't serve this to visiting slaves to insult their lord or lady.

Kheda spooned it up hungrily all the same, savouring the few shreds of meat. He cleared his throat and smiled. 'That's a fine piece you're sewing there.' He nodded toward the embroidery frame.

The woman nodded a perfunctory acknowledgement, scraping round the bottom of her cook pot. 'There's a little more. Do you want it?'

'Famous for its embroideries, the Shek domain, even in the southern reaches.' Kheda tipped his bowl to drain the dregs of broth.

And what are you going to say now? 'Trade good, is it? No one put off by the possible taint of magic clinging to the cloth?'

Shap thrust his own bowl forward as soon as the woman raised her ladle. She gave him a second substantial portion, leaving Kheda with only a few thin spoonfuls of gruel. 'You eat what you've earned.' Her sharp black eyes dared him to challenge her.

'You've our thanks and our hopes that your journeys prosper.' A bare-chested man appeared in the doorway, tall and copper-skinned with shoulders as broad as any Kheda had seen on Godine's galley. He thrust his thumbs into the broad sash that served him as a belt, the bone handle of his serpentine-bladed Shek dagger white against the indigo cloth. The hilt was carved in the likeness of a heron.

Why not ask him? 'Tell me, friend, just how did Shek Kul put paid to his erstwhile wife suborning sorcery? Your warlord will naturally confide such things to you, and why wouldn't you debate such sensitive matters with a ragged, servile traveller?'

'If I don't get a passage out today, may I call on you tomorrow?' Shap squared his narrow shoulders, plainly disassociating himself from Kheda.

'You can, not that I'm promising anything,' the woman said grudgingly. She didn't include Kheda in this.

'Good day to you, then.' Back straight, Shap turned on his heel and headed for the gate. The dog barred his way, advancing to the full length of its chain.

'Get back,' Kheda snapped at the animal, daring it to disobey with a ferocious scowl. He unlatched the gate while the confused dog was looking towards the house for guidance and strode down to the sea, not caring where Shap had got to. Sorely tempted to hurl his cracked bowl out into the water, he crouched down and, instead, began scouring it clean with sand and water.

That was certainly a humiliating waste of time spent finding out nothing in the least bit useful. What now?

'Are you the palm reader?' A timid voice at his shoulder startled him from his frustration. A girl was looking down at him, barely more than a child and painfully thin, dark skin muddy with hunger, crusted eyes a watery blue. 'That man, back there, he said you'd read his journey in his hands.'

'I have some such talent.' Kheda stood, shaking water from his bowl and spoon. 'Sharing it with you depends on what you can do for me.'

The girl dropped her gaze and dug a toe into grey sand pocked from the morning's rains and churned by busy feet. 'I found driftwood this morning.' She was indeed clutching a scanty bundle of warped and splintered sticks scarcely thinner than her own arms.

'Then trade it for food and bring me half of whatever you get.' Kheda kept his voice hard as the girl raised wide, woebegone eyes to him, forcing him to explain. 'I can't promise you'll like what I read. Those men from the galley that sailed this morning, they promised me a share in their fish but when I saw ill-luck for their rowing master, I went hungry.' Anger at that unforeseen injustice soured his tone.

The girl's face turned sympathetic. 'I'll bring whatever food I can find.' Swinging her bundle of wood up on one shoulder with unexpected deftness, she trotted away through the shabby encampment ranged along the high-water mark.

Why did you tell her that? Why did you agree to read her future? A lost waif like that, she'll doubtless fasten on anyone who offers her kindness and if you see some hazard in her path, can you turn your back on her? The last thing you need is some vulnerable child dependent on you.

Kheda watched her thread her way through the ramshackle huts of branches and half-rotted lengths of sailcloth. The inadequate shelters changed hands with other every tide as far as Kheda could tell, as men and women came ashore or left with some departing ship, trading whatever necessities or trinkets they might have for protection from the daily rains. Some of the travellers held together in twos or threes, others didn't even bother bidding temporary companions a perfunctory farewell before taking a solitary berth on some galley heading in the right direction.

Give these people enough hints of favourable fortune and you could claim a decent share in food and shelter, not break your back grubbing in the dirt to get it. You've forsworn your honour already, thieving from Godine. How many nights will you suffer an empty belly before you compromise with a few invented omens for the sake of some sailer bread?

A welcome rush of splashes distracted him from such treacherous notions. Ladders were being thrown over the stern of the heavy trireme stationed down the beach. Troops slid down them, barely bothering with the rungs as they splashed into knee-deep surf. The men came ashore in two rapid files, rhythmic chinking from their mail coats, hands on their sword hilts.

Kheda looked around for any sign of disturbance. Travellers were scattering like a villager's ducks but only out of fear of the Shek swordsmen. Some cowered by their inadequate huts, others hesitated, tattered bundles clutched tight. The most terrified found themselves up to their chests in the waters of the strait before they could stop. Some ran inland to find villagers with brooms and hounds on ready chains barring their way. The dogs reared up, baying with excitement.

The swordsmen ignored them all, faces unyielding, pace unvarying. Behind, the trireme was wheeling round, blades poised before cutting deep into the water as the unseen rowers drove the ship along the shoreline after the troops. Commotion travelled up the beach like a storm squall. Men who'd long since traded away their pride cowered on their knees. Women begged with futile tears for protection from the Shek islanders. The column pounded inexorably along the beach.

Insidious, contagious fear pulled Kheda to his feet. He found his horrified gaze locking with the gaze of the leading swordsman, the man's eyes dark and determined beneath the gleaming bronze brow band of his helm.