“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—,” He dropped the small hand as if it had turned to fire.

“I thought I had seen nearly every kind of magic there is these last four years,” the lady remarked in a friendly voice, “but never magic that was danced.

Where did you learn it, Pasco?”’

Now he gaped at her, flustered. “Magic? Me, do magic?” Magic was a thing of schools and books. No proper Acalon did magic. They were harriers. They had always been harriers, or the spouses of harriers, or the parents of harriers.

“Oh, no—please, you’re mistaken, my lady. I’m. no mage.”

She met his eyes squarely. “You just danced a magical working, Pasco Acalon. I am never mistaken about such things.”

“Tell her,” Pasco said pleadingly to Osas grand mother. “You know I never had any sparkle of magic, not the tiniest.”

“That he never did, my lady,” admitted the old woman. “He and my grandson have been friends all their lives. There’s nothing odd about Pasco. Just as ordinary as mud, ‘less he starts showing more of a knack for har rier work.”

“Not quite like mud, Gran,” protested the boy Osa.

To Pasco’s deep embarrassment, Osa told the lady—and by then,Duke Vedris, who had ridden over to listen—of the other times Pasco had danced for luck, and gotten what he’d danced for. Pasco stared at the sand, wishing he could just leap into one of the fishing boats now being launched.

When Osa finished, the duke leaned forward in the saddle. “Pasco Acalon—you are related to Macarin and Edoar Acalon?”

Pasco bowed to Duke Vedris. “My father and my grandfather, your grace.”

“Then your mother was Zahra Qais before her marriage, and your maternal grandfather is Abbas Qais.” The: dukes quiet voice was soothing. With a smile: he added, “‘Were: all my servants as faithful and thorough as the Qaises and the Acalons of the Provost’s Guard, I would be the most fortunate ruler on earth. My dear,” he said to the: young lady, “is it possible you are mis taken?”

“No, Uncle,” the lady replied. She: slid cool fingers under Pasco’s chin and forced him to look up, to meet her eyes. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but you do have power, If you didn’t know it, then you need a teacher.”

“My dear, before you began to rearrange his life, did you introduce yourself to this poor lad?” inquired the duke.

The lady stared up at him, startled, then started to grin. Quickly she bit on her lip until she was able to look at Pasco with a straight face. Her fingers never so much as twitched from their position under his chin. “I’m sorry. I’m used to everyone already knowing who I am. I’m Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, the duke’s great-niece.”

Pasco blinked at her for a moment, dazed. It was such a pretty name, as pretty as she was—then his mind began to work again. Sandrilene fa Toren. Any resident of Summersea over the last four years would know that name, and know it well.

She was part of a quartet of young mages who had come to live in the temple city of Winding Circle, outside Summersea. First, they had managed to survive an earthquake while trapped under ground. They had next destroyed a pirate fleet, then gone to the northern mountains to tame entire forests as they burned. They came back to the coast in time to help end the blue pox plague of 1036. Everyone told stories about them, including tales of the girl who wove bandages with the power to heal and veils that made the wearer as good as invisible. In a world in which mages were as common as architects or jewelers, Lady Sandrilene and her three friends were on their way to becoming great mages, the very best of their kind.

“Not meaning any disrespect, your ladyship,” Pasco told her earnestly, “but rnaybe the magic’s in the net. I’dve known if I was magic, ‘deed I would.” My family would never let me hear the end of it, he thought.

Her eyebrows, fine gold-brown crescents, rose. “You may not have,” she replied firmly. “I didn’t know until I was ten—just before I came here, in fact. My three friends didn’t know until they came here, either, and Tris was inspected by a magic-finder. Some talents run very deep, Pasco Acalon. I think yours is one.”

“Your grace!” A boy on a pony galloped onto the sand from the Harbor Road. He’d been riding hard: the pony was covered in sweat as they drew up next to Vedris’s horse. The messenger wore the provost’s colors. “They told me you rode this way,” he gasped. “Captain Qais on dawn watch requests your grace’s attendance at Rokat House, on Harbor Street.”

Pasco frowned, thinking, This Qais would be his uncle Isman, who was not the man to send a boy out at full gallop without very good reason. Isman was so unflap pable that if he were to see a tidal wave roaring down on him, he would blink and order his sergeants to find boats.

The duke and his great-niece traded looks. “And the nature of the emergency?”

the duke asked coolly,

Perhaps Uncle Isman isn’t the only one who’d take a tidal wave in stride, thought Pasco, envious. That duke don’t startle easy. Me, I’m like this messenger—too excitable,

“It’s Jamar Rokat, the myrrh trader from Bihan, your grace,” replied the messenger. “He’s been murdered. It’s a terrible sight, begging your grace’s pardon.”

Again the duke and his great-niece exchanged looks, the girl’s startled, the duke’s level. “Uncle,” said Lady Sandrilene, reaching for the duke’s reins.