She punched at her brother halfheartedly; he ducked under her fist, blew a kiss at her, and left his room. He didn't bother to sneak by the garret room where the maids were—they had proved able to snore through hurricanes and his mothers first shout for them to get out of bed—but was quieter going down the stairs. He went noiselessly past his sisters' rooms and ghosted past the floor where his parents slept. Mama was the one to step quietly for. Once his father fell asleep, only his snoring proved he was not dead. Mama had the fox-ears, asleep and, awake.

Down to the ground floor, a quick nip into the kitchen for some bread, then a five-minute jog to the docks. Osabo Netmender was in his boat at Godsluck Wharf. Once Pasco was aboard, Osa put his back into the oars, hauling the boat clear of the commercial docks and guiding it east, along Summersea's shoreline.

"I can't believe you're out of bed," Osa told his friend.

"Halmy woke me after her watch," said Pasco, yawning. "Look, this isn't some joke, is it? Your dad really thinks I can bring luck to his ship?"

"It's no joke," replied Osa, rowing with practiced ease. "Not when he's promised to pay you a silver crescent. Pa never jokes about money. And it’s the whole fleet, not just our boat."

Pasco shook his head, A silver crescent was too much money for any kind of jest. "I just don't understand," he muttered, stretching.

"Look, you danced for luck on the entrance examinations, and the temple took me to be a student there," Osa, said reasonably. "You danced luck for Adesina, and her baby popped out slick as seaweed—"

"Stop it," ordered Pasco. "That baby would've come easy without anyone's help. There was a temple midwife with her the whole time."

"And what was a temple birth-mage doing walking by the fishing village: at just the right moment?" argued Osa.

“I'll bet you a copper crescent my dancing for fish don't do a whisper of good, " Pasco told his friend.

The other boy winced. "That's too much like ill-wishing," he said, "We need the fish, Pasco. We need 'em. bad."

I'm not ill-wishing," retorted Pasco, offering some of his bread. Osa took a piece. "I just never heard of a dance: that brought fish into nets before."

"Gran says it's an old one," Osa, said doggedly. "She's gonna teach it to you. There's a song to go with it and everything. You'll see."

Pasco shrugged, and ate his breakfast in silence.

Despite the early hour, there were people about as the duke's party rode east on Harbor Street, past Summersea's famed wharves. How the word got ahead of them Sandry couldn't guess, but some of those who started their day before dawn gathered along the way to greet their duke. Sailors, washerwomen, draymen—their ea ger looks and open smiles showed how glad they were to see Duke Vedris up and about. Sandry had meant to turn back once they reached Long Wharf but, looking ahead, she could see more of the locals emerging from ships and warehouses to get a look at him.

Cat dirt, she thought, vexed. She didn't want him to do too much today, after four weeks in bed and two weeks confined to his palace. At the same time she knew his people had been frightened by his illness. They wanted to reassure themselves that he was all right. One of the things he'd mentioned so often in their talks since his heart attack was the need to keep a realm stable. People who thought it might all go to pieces at any minute tended to do foolish things, like pull their money from the banks, which would make them collapse, or plot to set a new, stronger ruler on the throne.

Sandry watched her uncle as he patted the hand of a stout woman who had been coiling rope on one of the wharves. In this light—a combination of lanterns, torches, and a pale sky—It was hard to tell if he was tired yet. He seemed more energetic than he'd been at Duke's Citadel, but it could be an act.

She looked at the grizzled sergeant in charge of their troop of guards. Last night she had made a point of finding the man and having a long chat with him about today's ride. Now he nudged his mount over until they were side by side,

"He takes strength from them, milady," the sergeant told her quietly. "Same as they do from him. I say let 'im go on a bit."

Sandry thought over what he'd said. At last she replied, "I suppose there's no harm in going on. If it looks like, he's tiring, though, we turn back."

The sergeant bowed and returned to his soldiers. The word was passed among them in scant whispers,

Sandry looked at the duke to find his eyes were on her. He raised his eyebrows, and Sandry began to giggle. Trust her uncle to guess what the conversation had been about!

On they rode, past Jansar Wharf and Sharyn Wharf. The duke seemed to be enjoying himself, until he looked, up and saw a fat, turbaned man emerged, from the door way of a large, gray stone building. Over the lintel was the sign ROKAT HOUSE: MYRRH AND FINE SPICES in large, gilded letters, People moved out of the man's way. Some of them, slower than their neighbors, were urged to do so by one of the three bruisers who came with him, two men and a woman with arms like a black smiths.

Sandry could feel the moment the Duke's Guards noticed the rough types. She heard a creak of leather, a hushed clink of metal, and four of the squad urged their horses up on either side of Vedris. Two more rode next to Sandry: they had been assigned to her since her arrival at Duke's Citadel and had proved themselves to be quiet, quick shadows.

The duke raised a hand, and all of his group halted. The fat man came forward until he stood just ten feet away and bowed low, his palms pressed together before his face. His guards also bowed, though not so low that they lost sight of the duke's protectors.

"Good morning, Rokat," the duke said. His velvety voice had gone very cold.

"May the gods be praised, your grace!" said the fat man, straightening. "It is a grand thing, to see you among your people once more." Now that he was closer, Sandry could tell that he wore a jeweled pin in the neat green folds of his turban and that his clothes were made of the finest silk that money could buy. His plump hands glit tered with rings, all gold and most sporting a gem. After living with a smith for four years, she could also tell the bodyguards' weapons were very good and bore signs of earnest use.

"It was unnecessary for you to leave your counting-house to give me these felicitations," the duke replied.

"But I had to express my joy," replied the man—Rokat, the duke had called him—as he bowed again. "Seeing you is reassurance that the peace and law of your realm will continue to be kept. Seeing you, those of us who shelter in this safe harbor know we need fear no withdrawal of protection."

"Is there any reason I would consider such a withdrawal?" inquired the duke, leaning on his saddle horn.

"Never, your grace," said the fat man. "Never. I hope to see you again soon. Congratulations on your restored health!"

He waddled back to Rokat House. One of his guards sprang forward to open the door; the other two closed in swiftly behind him, guarding his back. Only when the quartet had gone inside Rokat House did Sandry feel a relaxing among the soldiers around her.

"Let us continue," Duke Vedris announced. The guards who had flanked her and her uncle fell back into their normal formation, and they resumed their ride.

"Who was that?" Sandry wanted to know.

"Rokat," the sergeant growled behind them, and spat.

"Jamar Rokat," Vedris said, nodding to a maid who was opening a set of shutters nearby. "Head of Rokat House here in Summersea. They hold the monopoly on the myrrh trade and import other items. They behave within my borders, but elsewhere they are little better than pirates. They know I will have none of the killing and thievery they use as common coin, and they dare not lose permission to enter our harbor."