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 finding 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.