Sandry shook her head and made herself smile. “The only thing that distresses me is the thought that you got up early this morning to read papers,” she informed him. “You’re supposed to rest, Uncle!” As they walked down the stair to their mounts, she thought, And what will Lark say if I stay with him?

“Pasco. Pasco, wake up.”’ He rolled over and moaned. A hand grabbed his shoulder. “Pasco, you chuff, get ting up was your idea. Now do it—I want to go to bed.” Pasco Acalon sat up, blinking. His sister Halmaedy knelt by the bed, her dark eyes amused. She was still dressed for the watch that had just ended, the brown leather of her jerkin stark against her dark blue shirt and breeches.

Pasco rubbed his face, ordering his traitorous body to move. ” ‘S a disgusting hour to be about,” he grumbled.

“No arguments here. What’s the deal, anyway?”

Pasco swung his legs out from under the blanket and leaned against his oldest sister. Their long, amber-skinned faces labeled them as kin: the same winged black brows over ebony-colored, eyes, noses a little too short, and. straight mouths a little too wi de. At twelve Pasco was just starting to get his growth, his thin body coltish as he wrestled with arms and legs that tended to go every which way.

“A friend, wants a favor,” the boy mumbled as he pulled on his garments, tying the string that held up his breeches as tight as he could manage. His shirt required no buttoning, which was why he’d picked it out last night. The less; he had to do before he was properly awake, the better.

“What: kind of favor?” Halmaedy demanded, suspi cious. “This isn’t off the straight, is it? Because—,”

Pasco ruffled her hair—glossy black, cropped short on the sides and left to grow long on top, just like his. “You’re home now,” he reminded her. “No need for harrier work here.” Harrier was; street slang for a Provost’s Guard. “An Acalon off the straight?” he went on, his voice strangled as he bent over to don his shoes. “The very skies would cry at it. Go to bed, Halmy. Try to dream of something beside arresting drunks and house breakers.”

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 snor ing 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, yawn ing. “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 its 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.