A sea breeze riffled the black bangs of Prince Arturo of Bearn, carrying the rich, salt aroma of the Southern Sea. Overhead, the mainsail fluttered restively, and a cleat drummed against the mast. The young prince rested a booted foot on the gunwale, and his two-man Renshai escort shifted with immediate and effortless grace to the rail. Should the ship lurch, should Arturo slip, should some inexplicable madness drive him to leap overboard, they would rescue him with the same swift and bold dexterity that characterized their legendary swordcraft.

Arturo studied a sea glazed with calm, the occasional puff of air chopping foamy wavelets into a rich blue span that might otherwise have passed for woven tapestry. The sailors aboard the warship worked with a leisureliness that suggested boredom, and the soldiers sat in conversational groups as they routinely sharpened and oiled their weapons. Two weeks upon the Southern Sea had revealed no sign of the pirates that had been plaguing the trading ships over the last several months. They had seen only one other vessel while guarding the docks, a cautious freighter from the East that had successfully delivered a load of spices, cosmetics, and fine fabrics to Bearn's port.

The Bearnian ship, numbered Seven, might have seemed a dull prison to most of the men aboard her; but Arturo savored the dense salt tang of the ocean that flavored every bite of food and every breath, the rock and toss of the deck even at its most extreme, and the looming sky, whether bright sapphire and full of fiery sun or dark slate beneath a threatening network of clouds. At sixteen, he appreciated any real-life activity that rescued him from the monotonous lectures of his many tutors, the seemingly endless parade of hangers-on and malcontents through his father's courtroom, the pretty manners of the courtiers, and the delicate, fawning tiptoeing of servants in his presence.