Hecht hoisted his bag to his shoulder. "I wonder what they really wanted."

"To give you a courier packet. Unless they were looking for witches." In the context of the Special Office a witch would be anybody who consorted with the Instrumentalities of the Night absent the blessing of the Church.

That troubled Hecht. It was vague. The Special Office could make anyone fit. Even the most devout Episcopal Chaldareans bought small charms and invocations against the malice of the Night.

"What you got?" Ghort asked as Lumberer cleared the mouth of the Teragi, after creeping past dredges valiantly trying to keep the channel navigable. The craft rode the evening ebb tide. Lights in Remale-on-Teragi shone to their left. Hecht was, at last, allowing himself to examine the contents of the anonymous courier wallet by the light of a storm lantern. A crewman stood by lest the landlubbers did something stupid and set the ship on fire.

Fire was the fiercest terror of sailors.

"What've we got, Pipe?"

"Other than this letter telling me to take the big packet to somebody named Montes Alina, who'll be using the name Beomond, and how to find the guy, there's nothing here."

"Turning us into mail carriers, eh?"

"Possibly." Paranoia suggested the possibility that the packet would finger him for another assassin.

The Special Office owed him some pain. But they should not know that. He hoped they did not know that.

Ghort said, "That's right. They got their fanatic asses roasted and kicked out up there, a couple years ago. That's where Drocker got himself all crippled."

"Yes. Something about them trying to wipe out the Sonsan Deves."

"You ask me, they were just gonna rob them. But the damned Unbelievers had the balls to fight back."

"So then the ruling families got their tails all twisted because that would cost them their clerical class."

"Yep. Ran the Brotherhood out of town. Too late, the way I heard. The Deves packed up and left."

Hecht knew that story from the inside.

Only Anna Mozilla and a few Deves knew.

"We should be careful," Ghort said. "Till we know who wants to kill you."

"I plan on that. I'm going to hang around just long enough to steal enough to set myself up with a commercial farm. So Anna and I can spend our old age raising grapes and making babies." He was half serious. He did not expect to return to Dreanger while er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen remained the power behind Gordimer the Lion, who was the power behind the Kaif.

That Lumberer did not always operate inside the law was borne out by the skills of her crew. After crossing the bar they turned north and sailed on into the night, navigating by the light of a quarter moon. In often treacherous seas. There were a million little islands out there. More shoals appeared regularly as sea levels fell.

Near as Hecht could tell, more permanent ice lingering in the high mountain regions meant less water in the rivers feeding into the Mother Sea.

There were dredges working the channel of the Sawn River, up to Sonsa. Lumberer had a shallow draft and, of course, rode in on a flood tide. That was basic, common sense seamanship, old as the trade itself.

Hecht was surprised by Sonsa's quays. Today's highest high water was three feet lower than at his last arrival.

He said, "I want out of Sonsa as fast as possible. So we deliver the courier case and scoot." Though he had no reason to think anyone would recognize him now.

"I'm with you. This place is so quiet, it's creepy."

The waterfront was unnaturally sedate. Two dozen large ships tied up at the family quays looked like they had not moved in a long time. The rigging on some had gone ragged.

"The place is dying," Hecht said. He slung his bag, stepped up to the quay from Lumberer's rail, using a main stay for leverage.

A dozen men and boys surrounded him. Each tried to out-shout the others. All offered to help carry his possessions, to guide him wherever he wanted to go, to take him to a willing sister or daughter. There had been none of this desperation last time Hecht came through.

"This is worse than back home," Ghort murmured. "Except around where the squatters are. You." Ghort grabbed a little weasel with a swift, bright smile, maybe eight or nine. "Where we headed, Matt?"

At the moment Piper Hecht was Mathis Schlink from Schonthal and Ghort was Buck Fantil.

"It's a great name," he had told Hecht aboard Lumberer. "I always wished I had one of them names like Dirk or Steele or Rock. Pinkus Ghort. My momma ought to be spanked. What the hell kind of name is Pinkus Ghort?"

"You tell me," Hecht had responded. "You made it up."

"You want to know the sick, sad truth, my friend? I didn't. It really is the one my momma hung on me. Though nobody never believes me when I tell them."

Hecht remained firmly established in that class. He was sure that Pinkus Ghort would be wanted in more than one principality farther north, under other names.

About the boy, he asked, "What are you doing, Buck?"

"You know your way around this dump? I don't. Besides, the kid reminds me of me in my better days. What's your handle, Shorty?"

"Pella, Your Honor. Pella Versulius."

Pella's competitors laughed. One advised, "Don't turn your back on the little turd, Outlander. He'll steal the hair off your ass."

"He's got shorter legs than me. I can run him down and break his neck."

Hecht caught a flicker of admiration from the urchin. "We need to come to a place called the House of the Ten Gallons in Karagos Middle Street. You know where that is?"

The boy lied easily and glibly. "Absolutely, Your Honors. My own mam was born in Cuttlebone Close an' that's practically next door. Just follow me, Your Honors."

Ghort murmured, "As long as he's out front my butt hairs are safe."

"I'd still keep an eye on our back trail. And not follow him into any place that's narrow or dark."

"You don't need to teach me how to dance. I told you, I used to be this kid. Watch how he gets just far ahead enough so we can't hear him ask people how to get to Karagos Middle Street."

"And how they eyeball us before they decide to help him fleece us."

"Yeah. You feel like there ain't much love for foreigners going on here?"

There was anger under Sonsa's thick despair. The waterfront was moribund. Many of its warehouses appeared abandoned.

Hecht shuddered suddenly.

"What?"

"I don't know. I got one of those feelings like you get when some night creature is watching you."

The truth, though, was that the boy had led him past a site where two friends had been killed by sorcery during his previous visit.

"Yeah? What did you think of the kid's name?"

"Sounds a little classical."

"A little, huh? He insulted us, you know."

"How so?"

"Basically, he told us we're too damned unlettered to recognize the name of the poet who wrote The Lay of Ihrian."

"You know what? He's right. In my case."

"You are ignorant and unlettered up there in the Grand Marshes, aren't you?"

"I never denied it. That's why I left."

'There's a damned lie if I ever heard one. Nobody runs away from home on account of… Anyways, if I was honest, I'd admit that the only reason I know is because life around Doneto's dump is so damned dull there that there ain't nothing else to do but read. Because you got me hooked on that shit when we was locked up in Plemenza."

"You don't need to make excuses. Reading isn't a bad thing."

"Now you sound like the Principate. Hey! Kid! Pellapront. How's Alma?"

The boy froze in place, eyes big. He stared at Ghort, bewildered. "Your Honor?"

"Never mind. Go on. And stay on the paved streets. I don't care if it is longer that way." To Hecht, he said, "The Lay of Ihrian is this long-ass comic poem about a guy who goes on a tour of the Holy Lands. But only in his dreams. Guided by a ghost who lies about his name all the time."