Just that. No acceptance of the apology. No angry reproach. It was as if he hadexpected his reluctant assistant would be late.

Hort fumed about this as he grunted and heaved, helping to right the small boatand set it safely in the water. His annoyance with the whole situation was suchthat he was seated in the boat, accepting the oars as they were passed down fromthe dock, before he remembered that his father had been launching this craft foryears without assistance. His son's inexpert hands could not have been a help,only a hindrance.

Spurred by this new irritation, Hort let the stem of the boat drift away fromthe dock as his father prepared to board. The petty gesture was in vain. The OldMan stepped into the boat, stretching his leg across the water with no morethought than a merchant gives his keys in their locks.

'Row that way,' came the order to his son.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Hort bent to the task.

The old rhythms returned to him in mercifully few strokes. Once he had been gladto row his father's boat. He had been proud when he had grown enough to handlethe oars himself. No longer a young child to be guarded by his mother, he hadbasked in the status of the Old Man's boy. His playmates had envied hisassociation with the only fisherman on the dock who could consistently trap theelusive Nya - the small schooling fish whose sweet flesh brought top price eachafternoon after the catch was brought in.

Of course, that had been a long time ago. He'd wanted to learn about the Nyathen - he knew less now; his memories had faded.

As Hort had grown, so had his world. He learned that away from the docks no oneknew of the Old Man, nor did they care. To the normal citizens of Sanctuary hewas just another fisherman and fishermen did not stand high in the socialstructure of the town. Fishermen weren't rich, nor did they have the ear of thelocal aristocrats. Their clothes weren't colourful like the S'danzo's. Theyweren't feared like the soldiers or mercenaries.

And they smelled.

Hort had often disputed this latter point with the street urchins away from thedocks until bloody noses, black eyes and bruises taught him that fishermenweren't good fighters, either. Besides, they did smell.

Retreating to the safety of the dock community Hort found that he viewed theculture which had raised him with a blend of scorn and bitterness. The onlypeople who respected fishermen were other fishermen. Many of his old friendswere drifting away - finding new lives in the crowds and excitement of the cityproper. Those that remained were dull youths who found reassurance in theunchanging traditions of the fish-craft and who were already beginning to looklike their fathers.

As his loneliness grew, it was natural that Hort used his money to buy newclothes which he bundled and hid away from the fish-tainted cottage theycalled home. He scrubbed himself vigorously with sand, dressed and tried toblend with the townsfolk.

He found the citizens remarkably pleasant once he had removed the mark of thefishing community. They were most helpful in teaching him what to do with hismoney. He acquired a circle of friends and spent more and more time away fromhome until...

'Your mother tells me you're leaving.'

The Old Man's sudden statement startled Hort, jerking him rudely from his mentalwanderings. In a flash he realized he had been caught in the trap his friendshad warned him about. Alone in the boat with his father he would be a captiveaudience until tile tide changed. Now he'd hear the anger, the accusations andfinally the pleading.

Above all Hort dreaded the pleading. While they had had their differences in thepast, he still held a lingering respect for his father, a respect he knew woulddie if the Old Man were reduced to whining and begging.

'You've said it yourself a hundred times. Old Man,' Hort pointed out with ashrug, 'not everyone was meant to be a fisherman.'

It came out harsher than he had intended, but Hort let it go without moreexplanations. Perhaps his father's anger would be stirred to a point where theconversation would be terminated prior to the litanies of his obligations to hisfamily and tradition.

'Do you think you can earn a living in Sanctuary?' the Old Man asked, ignoringhis son's baiting.

'We ... I won't be in Sanctuary,' Hort announced carefully. Even his motherhadn't possessed this last bit of knowledge. "There's a caravan forming in town.In four days it leaves for the capital. My friends and I have been invited totravel with it.'

'The capital?' Panit nodded slowly. 'And what will you do in Ranke?'

'I don't know yet,' his son admitted, 'but there are ten jobs in Ranke for everyone in Sanctuary.'

The Old Man digested this in silence. 'What will you use for money on thistrip?' he asked finally.

'I had hoped ... There's supposed to be a tradition in our family, isn't there?When a son leaves home his father gives him a parting gift. I know you don'thave much, but...' Hort stopped; the Old Man was shaking his head in slownegation.

'We have less than you think,' he said sadly. 'I said nothing before, but yourfine clothes, there, have tapped our savings; the fishing's been bad.'

'If you won't give me anything, just say so!' Hort exploded angrily. 'You don'thave to rationalize it with a long tale of woe.'

'I'll give you a gift,' the Old Man assured him. 'I only wanted to warn you thatit probably would not be money. More to the left.'

'I don't need your money,' the youth growled, adjusting his stroke. 'My friendshave offered to loan me the necessary funds. I just thought it would be betternot to start my new life in debt.'

'That's wise,' Panit agreed. 'Slow now.'

Hort glanced over his shoulder for a bearing then straightened with surprise.His oars trailed loose in the water.

'There's only one float!' he announced in dumb surprise.

'That's right,' the Old Man nodded. 'It's nice to know you haven't forgottenyour numbers.'

'But one float means...'

'One trap,' Panit agreed. 'Right again. I told you fishing was bad. Still,having come all this way, I would like to see what is in my one trap.'

The Old Man's dry sarcasm was lost on his son. Hort's mind was racing as hereflexively manoeuvred the boat into position by the float.

One trap! The Old Man normally worked fifteen to twenty traps; the exact numberalways varied from day to day according to his instincts, but never had Hortknown him to set less than ten traps. Of course the Nya were an unpredictablefish whose movements confounded everyone save Panit. That is - they came readilyto the trap if the trap happened to be near them in their randomwanderings.

One trap! Perhaps the schools were feeding elsewhere; that sometimes happenedwith any fish. But then the fishermen would simply switch to a different catchuntil their mainstay returned. If the Old Man were less proud of his ability andreputation he could do the same...

'Old Man!' The exclamation burst from Hort's lips involuntarily as he scannedthe horizon.

'What is it?' Panit asked, pausing as he hauled his trap from the depths.

'Where are the other boats?'

The Old Man returned his attention to the trap. 'On the dock,' he saidbrusquely. 'You walked past them this morning.'

Open-mouthed, Hort let his memory roam back over the docks. He had beenpreoccupied with his own problems, but... yes! there-had been a lot of boatslying on the dock.

'All of them?' he asked, bewildered. 'You mean we're the only boat out today?'

'That's right.'