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 find ing 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 countinghouse 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.”

“Is this Jamar as bad as the rest of his family?” Sandry wanted to know. There had been something about the fat man’s brown eyes, a nervousness, that made her curious.

The duke rubbed his shaved head. “When Jamar Rokat was but twenty years old and living in Janaal, he was courting a young girl of great beauty and fortune.

Somehow the word got out that the girls father was considering another man, one who had offered more gold in the marriage settlement. Jamar entered his rival’s house and with a silk cord strangled the man, his father, and his grandfather.

He desired to make the point that competing with any Rokat was a fatal exercise.”

Sandry shuddered.

The duke leaned over to pat her knee. “Fortunately, my dear, you need have nothing to do with any of Rokat’s tribe. For that, I am thankful.”

Pasco leaned forward as Osa rowed his boat around the low wharf that served the fishing village. Ahead of them stretched a broad length of beach on which a few boats had been careened for scraping and repairs. Lanterns glinted from the fishing boats as their owners prepared to sail. More people had gathered on the strand. Under a lantern dangling from a pole, a man sat cross-legged, testing the drum in his lap. A woman stood behind him, playing scales on a wooden flute.