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‘It was. I’d fallen on it when I was small, and it was a long time healing, and when it did heal, it was never as strong as it should have been.

But the priests cured me. They put me with the watering crew on the orchard, and the priest in charge of us gave me mismatched buckets.

He made me carry the heavier one with my weaker arm.

I thought he was a madman at first; my parents had always taught me to use my stronger arm for everything.

It was my earliest introduction to Sa’s precepts. ’

Wintrow frowned to himself for a moment, then grinned. ‘“For the weakest has but to try his strength to find it, and then he shall be strong”.’

‘Exactly.’ The priest gestured at the long low building before them. The acolytes’ cells had been their destination. ‘The messenger was delayed getting here. You will have to pack swiftly and set out right away if you are to reach port before your ship sails. It’s a long walk.’

‘A ship!’ The desolation that had faded briefly from Wintrow’s face flooded back. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I hate travelling by sea. But when one must go from Jamaillia to Bingtown, there is no other choice.’ His frown deepened. ‘Walk to port? Didn’t they arrange a man and a horse for me?’

‘Do you so quickly revive to the comforts of wealth, Wintrow?’ Berandol chided him.

When the boy hung his head, abashed, he went on, ‘No, the message said that a friend had offered you passage across and the family had been glad to accept it.’ More gently he added, ‘I suspect that money is not so plentiful for your family as it once was. The Northern War has hurt many of the trading families, both in the goods that never came down the Buck River and those that never were sold there.’ More pensively, he went on, ‘And our young Satrap does not favour Bingtown as his father and grandfathers did. They seemed to feel that those brave enough to settle the Cursed Shores should share generously in the treasures they found there. But not young Cosgo. It is said that he feels they have reaped the reward of their risk-taking long enough, that the Shores are well settled and whatever curse was once there is now dispersed. He has not only sent them new taxes but has parcelled out new grants of land near Bingtown to some of his favourites.’ Berandol shook his head.

‘He breaks the word of his ancestor, and causes hardship for folk who have always kept their word with him. No good can come of this.’

‘I know. I should be grateful I am not afoot all the way. But it is hard, Berandol, to accept a journey to a destination I dread, let alone by ship. I shall be miserable the whole way.’

‘Seasick?’ Berandol asked in some surprise. ‘I did not think it afflicted those of seafaring stock.’

‘The right weather can sour any man’s stomach, but no, that is not it.

It’s the noise and the rushing about and the crowded conditions.

The smell. And the sailors. Good enough men in their own way but…

’ the boy shrugged. ‘Not like us. They haven’t the time to talk about the things we speak of here, Berandol.

And if they did, their thoughts would likely be as basic as those of the youngest acolyte.

They live as animals do, and reason as animals.

I shall feel as if I am living among beasts.

Through no faults of their own,’ he added at seeing the young priest frown.

Berandol took a breath as if to launch into speech, then reconsidered it.

After a moment, he said thoughtfully, ‘It has been two years since you have visited your parents’ home, Wintrow.

Two years since you last were out of the monastery and about working folk.

Look and listen well, and when you come back to us, tell me if you still agree with what you have just said.

I charge you to remember this, for I shall. ’.

‘I shall, Berandol,’ the youth promised sincerely. ‘And I shall miss you.’

‘Probably, but not for some days, for I am to escort you on your journey down to the port. Come. Let’s go and pack.’

Long before Kennit reached the end of the beach, he was aware of the Other watching him.

He had expected this, yet it intrigued him, for he had often heard they were creatures of the dawn and the dusk, seldom moving about while the sun was still in the sky.

A lesser man might have been afraid, but a lesser man would not have possessed Kennit’s luck.

Or his skill with a sword. He continued his leisurely stroll down the beach, all the while gathering plunder.

He feigned unawareness of the creature watching him, yet he was eerily certain that it knew of his deceit.

A game within a game, he told himself, and smiled secretly.

He was immensely irritated when, a few moments later, Gankis came lolloping down the beach to wheeze out the news that there was an Other up there watching him.

‘I know,’ he told the old sailor with asperity.

An instant later he had regained control of his voice and features.

In a kindly tone, he explained, ‘And it knows that we know it is watching us. That being so, I suggest you ignore it, as I do, and finish searching your bank. Have you found anything else of note?’

‘A few things,’ Gankis admitted, not pleased.

Kennit straightened and waited. The sailor dug into the capacious pockets of his worn coat.

‘There’s this,’ he said as he reluctantly drew an object of brightly painted wood from his pocket.

It was an arrangement of discs and rods with circular holes in some of the discs.

Kennit found it incomprehensible. ‘A child’s toy of some kind,’ he deemed it. He raised his eyebrow at Gankis and waited.

And this,’ the seaman conceded. He took a rosebud from his pocket.

Kennit took it from him carefully, wary of the thorns.

He had actually believed it real until the moment that he held it and found the stem stiff and unyielding.

He hefted it in his hand; it was as light as a real rose would be.

He turned it, trying to decide what it was made from: he concluded it was nothing he had ever seen before.

Even more mysterious than its structure was its fragrance, as warm and spicy as if it were a full-blown rose from a summer garden.

Kennit raised one eyebrow at Gankis as he fastened the rose to the lapel of his jacket.

The barbed thorns held it securely. Kennit watched Gankis’s lips fold tight, but the seaman dared no words.

Kennit glanced at the sun, and then at the ebbing waves.

It would take them over an hour to walk back to the other side of the island.

He could not stay much longer without risking his ship on the rocks exposed by the retreating tide.

A rare moment of indecision clouded his thoughts.

He had not come to the Treasure Beach for treasure alone; he had come instead seeking the oracle of the Other, confident that the Other would choose to speak to him.

He needed the confirmation of the oracle; was not that why he had brought Gankis with him to witness?

Gankis was one of the few men aboard his ship who did not routinely embroider his own adventures.

He knew that not only his own crew members but any pirate at Divvytown would accept Gankis’s account as true.

Besides. If the oracle that Gankis witnessed did not suit Kennit’s purposes, he’d be an easy man to kill.

Once again he considered the amount of time left to him.

A prudent man would stop his search of the beach now, confront the Other, and then hasten back to his ship.

Prudent men never trusted their luck. But Kennit had long ago decided that a man had to trust his luck in order for it to grow.

It was a personal belief, one he had discovered for himself and saw no reason to share with anyone else.

He had never achieved any major triumph without taking a chance and trusting his luck.

Perhaps the day he became prudent and cautious, his luck would take insult and desert him.

He smirked to himself as he concluded that would be the one chance he would not take.

He would never trust to luck that his luck would not desert him.

This convolution of logic pleased him. He continued his leisurely search of the tideline.

As he neared the toothy rocks that marked the end of the crescent beach, every one of his senses prickled with awareness of the Other.

The smell of it was alluringly sweet, and then abruptly it became rancidly rotten when the wind changed and brought it stronger.

The scent was so strong it became a taste in the back of his throat, one that almost gagged him.

But it was not just the smell of the beast; Kennit could feel its presence against his skin.

His ears popped and he felt its breathing as a pressure on his eyeballs and on the skin of his throat.

He did not think he perspired, yet his face suddenly felt greasy with sweat, as if the wind had carried some substance from the Other’s skin and pasted it onto his.

Kennit fought distaste that bordered on nausea. He refused to let that weakness show.

Instead he drew himself up to his full height and unobtrusively straightened his waistcoat. The wind stirred both the plumes on his hat and the gleaming black locks of his hair.