'By now you all have not only seen the Beysib, but have all grown accustomed totheir strange appearance. Coming on them for the first time by torchlight on adeserted pier as I did, though, was enough to panic a strong man ... and I amnot a strong man. The hands holding the torches were webbed, as if they had comeout of the sea rather than across it. The handles of the warriors' swordsjutting up from behind their shoulders I had seen from afar, but what I hadn'tnoted was their eyes. Those dark, unblinking eyes staring at me with thetorchlight reflecting in their depths nearly had me convinced that they wouldpounce on me like a pack of animals if I showed my fear. Even now, by daylightthose eyes can ...'

'Hakiem!'

The storyteller was pleased to note that he was not the only one who started atthe sudden cry. He had not lost his touch for drawing an audience into a story.They had forgotten the morning glare and were standing with him on a torchlitpier.

Fast behind his pride, or perhaps overlapping it, was a wave of anger at havingbeen interrupted in mid-tale. It was not a kindly gaze he turned on theinterloper.

It was none other than Hort, flanked by two Beysib warriors. For a moment Hakiemhad to fight off a wave of unreality, as if the youth had stepped out of thestory to confront him in life.

'Hakiem! You must come at once. The Beysa herself wishes to see you.'

'She'll have to wait,' the storyteller declared haughtily, ignoring the murmursthat had sprung up among his audience, 'I'm in the middle of a story.'

'But you don't understand,' Hort insisted, 'she wants to offer you a position inher court!'

'No, you don't understand,' Hakiem flared back, swelling in his anger withoutrising from his seat. 'I already am employed ... and will be employed until thisstory is done. These good people have commissioned me to entertain them and I