"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 unflappable 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.

He shook his head at her. "This is something that requires my attention, my dear. You have a problem of your own to solve just now."

She frowned up at him. "I suppose so, but—," She looked at Pasco, then back at her great-uncle.

The duke leaned down to cup her cheek in one hand and spoke too quietly for Pasco to hear. She replied, her voice just as soft; he spoke again. At last—very reluctantly, it seemed to Pasco—she nodded, and stood back. Immediately a man and a woman detached themselves from the squad of guards, moving their horses to stand by hers. They looked at Pasco, Osa, and Grandmother Netmender in a tough, memorizing way that Pasco knew very well. Hey seen it often enough on the faces of his own family: that habit of weighing people they'd met to decide who might be trouble, and who might not.