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  Beko had dismounted and approached the farmstead, and several people wandered out to meet him. After a brief exchange, Beko came back smiling. “Plenty of room in their field, and they've bottled a new batch of root wine just this morning. Lowkie will be happy to give us six bottles, but he stresses we're the first tasters.”

  “So if we wake with acid guts, it's not his fault,” Konrad said.

  Beko shrugged. “That's a chance I'm willing to take. You can drink water if you like.”

  “Will he sell me some food?” Konrad asked.

  Beko's eyes narrowed. “What are you planning on cooking?”

  The scarred Serian shrugged, then smiled. “That's for me to know and you to taste.”

  Beko threw a money pouch, which Konrad caught in the air. “If you give him good money for dust, I'll skin you myself.”

  Konrad's undamaged eyebrow arched. “You and which army?” He walked away from the group's quiet laughter.

  Beko raised his arms. “Home for the night, everyone. The field's past the farmstead, and Lowkie recommends camping in the shelter of the trees at its center. He says there's no sign of any unpleasant wildlife around right now, so we'll get a good night's rest and can set off at dawn tomorrow.”

  “Does he have any young farm daughters who need irrigating?” Noon asked.

  Beko shrugged. “I'm sure if he has, they'll have already marked you out, Noon.”

  Noon licked his fingers and rubbed them together.

  “Sometimes I think I'd be better siding with seethe-gators,” Rhiana said.

  Ramus laughed along with the rest of them, even though he had the distinct impression that Rhiana was not really talking to him.

  They skirted around the farmstead, watched by two farm wolves lazing beneath a tree at one corner of the yard. Lowkie waved the travelers on, then he and the others disappeared back into the buildings.

  Ramus caught up with Beko. “You know Lowkie?” he asked.

  “I've camped here several times before. He's a good man, and an honest land worker.”

  “Nice of him to give us free wine.”

  “He said he'll bring it across to us later when the bottles are more settled. Honestly, I think he just wants time away from the farm, and sharing a bottle with us would only be polite.”

  They walked together at the head of the line, leading their horses toward the spread of well-spaced trees on a small mound at the field's center. The setting sun cast long shadows across the grass, which was wavering slowly in the slight breeze. It reminded Ramus of the sea.

  He was looking forward to the first night camped out beneath the stars. Later, the nightly ritual of setting camp would become a chore, but right now it was something to enjoy. And after food and drink, he knew that the Serians would tell a story.

  Like many tribes of Noreela, the Mancoserians passed on much of their past through storytelling. They were a proud, hard people, existing in harsh surroundings and facing severe risks every day. They fished and farmed, fought off frequent attacks from marauding seethe-gators, and then many of their children would leave the island and head for the mainland. Here they took employment as soldiers for the Guild of Voyagers or as mercenaries. They were feared and revered in equal measures, and Ramus had never known a Mancoserian who could not fight.

  And every Serian he had ever met had stories to tell. Many a time he had spent the hour before bed enrapt with tales of voyages gone wrong, fishing the violent waters of the Bay of Cantrassa or fighting seethe-gators that hauled their fearsome bodies onto the Mancoserian coastline to hunt, mate or kill.

  When they reached the trees, Ramin and Noon relieved the packhorses of their loads, leading the animals to a nearby stream to drink. The other Serians started setting up camp, and Ramus and Nomi erected their own tents. Ramus was pleased that he had not lost the touch. His tent was up before any other, and he sat and smugly watched them finish.

  Nomi settled beside him and sighed. “I'd forgotten how much I love the first day and night.”

  “I hadn't,” he said.

  “Sunset's going to be perfect tonight.”

  “It's always perfect on a voyage. Clouds bleed it red, and clear skies turn orange.” Ramus closed his eyes and tried to will away the discomfort in his head. I can feel it all the time now, he thought. It's only when I think back to how I was before that I really appreciate the difference.

  “I'm looking forward to my dust meal.”

  Ramus smiled, realizing that he was enjoying Nomi's company. Sometimes he thought she was a fool, but perhaps that was his problem more than hers. She was a Voyager, just like him. He breathed in her scent, and felt a momentary sadness at things that could not be.

  “What I'm hoping,” he said, “is that we have a group of Serians in the midst of a vicious culinary feud.”

  Nomi laughed, and the sun went down.

  KONRAD SPENT SOME time back at the farm, and when he returned he was carrying a basket of mixed vegetables and a slab of meat wrapped in fine silk. After he had started a good fire, he took one of their cooking pots aside and started chopping and mixing. Nobody bothered him, and he acted as though he were camping on his own. With everything chopped and the pot starting to bubble above the fire, he ventured out into the field, heading for a marshy area in one corner, head down as he searched for a mix of herbs.

  “I haven't seen him add the dust yet,” Nomi said.

  “He does it so none of us can see,” Beko said. “Probably rolled the meat across the farmyard with his boot.”

  “Well, at least we'll know where it came from.”

  Beko had come to sit beside Nomi when Ramus stood and went for a walk. Nomi had watched her companion pass beyond the influence of the campfire, and now he was visible only as a shadow out in the field.

  “He's a quiet one,” Beko said.

  “Ramus? I suppose he is.” She felt a brief flush of defensiveness, but it soon filtered away. Ramus was his own man and could defend himself.

  “Is it him who wants to keep our destination secret?”

  “It's caution, Beko, not secrecy. We don't want the wrong people hearing about this.”

  “You mean the Guild of Voyagers? Why are they the wrong people?”

  Nomi was silent for a while, considering the question. Finally she said, “I think Ramus would best answer that. I'm here for the adventure, the discovery and the glory. I'll make no pretense about that. Ramus is here for something far deeper.”

  “Deeper than discovery?”

  “His own discovery. He set himself a challenge when he started voyaging, and that was to become the greatest Voyager of them all.”

  “Quite a challenge. And quite a thing to tell someone.”

  Nomi laughed softy. “He's never actually told me that. But that's what his life is all about. I take pleasure in discovery, and if it can also earn my way through life, I'll take that too. Ramus has always looked down on me for that.”

  “Ventgorian wine tastes just as good, even though you make a little money from it,” Beko said. He started sharpening a knife on a bladestone, a cool, smooth sound which Nomi found almost sensual.

  “It does,” she said. “But for Ramus, voyaging is his calling, his destiny. He thinks I cheapen it.”

  “And you call him your friend.”

  “Ramus is much more than just a friend.”

  “Oh.”

  Nomi glanced at the Serian captain, surprised by the suddenly lowered tone of his voice. A dozen responses came to mind, but the one she uttered surprised her even more. “It's never been like that. It never will.”

  Beko looked at her briefly, then went back to sharpening his knife.

  “It's almost like we're the same person,” Nomi said, trying to move the conversation back around to where it had been heading originally, even though part of her truly wanted it to stay there. “We're friends like brother and sister are friends. Intense, but warring. Loving, but sometimes we get so angry at each other that . . .” She trailed of
f, not sure how to translate her thoughts into words.

  “That . . . ?”

  Nomi shrugged. There he is, she thought. Just a shape in the shadows, and I wonder if he knows we're talking about him right now? “Haven't you ever loved someone so much, and for so long, and yet sometimes you want to kill them?”

  “Never had the chance,” Beko said, sheathing his freshly sharpened knife.

  Nomi closed her eyes. “I'm sorry. Insensitive of me.”

  “You're not insensitive,” he said. The sound of the blade-stonehad not started again, and it took a few heartbeats for Nomi to look at Beko. He averted his gaze and started running the stone slowly, smoothly along his sword.

  “FOOD!” KONRAD CALLED tersely. And as much as the Serians had been denigrating his cooking, everyone dropped what they were doing to go eat.

  He had made a stew—chunky vegetables and cubed sheebok meat, with snowspit petals adding a rich, warm aroma and a spicy taste. Everyone ate in appreciative silence. Lulah, the smallest of them all, went back to the pot twice for more helpings, and when Rhiana had finished she leaned back against her saddle and let out a small burp. Then she started running her tongue along her teeth, frowning and reaching for her knife.

  “Boulders stuck between my teeth,” she said.

  Ramin nodded. “That sheebok eat stones all its life?”

  Konrad only smiled as the abuse came and went.

  “I thought it was fine,” Nomi said. “In fact, it was better than fine. I've eaten some truly bad food on voyages, but I think this is the one when I'll be turning fat and lazy.”

  “What do you mean, turning?” Ramus asked.

  Konrad nodded to Nomi, acknowledging her praise.

  “Thing is,” Nomi continued, “the grit gives it texture.”

  Konrad hefted his knife, but made do with throwing a discarded potato at her head.

  As they cleared up, Lowkie—a thin, wiry man with a startlingly wild head of hair—appeared carrying a wooden box. He walked slowly and carefully, obviously not wanting to upset the newly bottled wine. Beko helped him open the first bottle. Rhiana collected each of their mugs and held them while Lowkie carefully poured.

  “Who's first?” he asked.

  “You, surely,” Ramus said. “You brewed and bottled it.”

  Lowkie grinned. He looked like someone who smiled a lot. “And that's why I don't want to be the first to die from it.”

  “Well, piss, I've died from bad root wine a dozen times before,” Noon said. The stocky Serian seemed to have accepted that Lowkie had no daughters to entertain, so perhaps getting drunk was the next best thing. He took his mug from Rhiana and sipped. He held his expression for a while, but he could not hide the emerging smile. “This,” he said eventually, “is going to give us a good evening.”

  They drank, answering Lowkie's many questions about events in Long Marrakash, and after a couple of bottles were emptied, Nomi stood close to the fire and looked around at the group.

  “You can all guess one of the reasons why I like traveling with Serians,” she said. She nodded at Ramus. “He may not be so keen to hear yet more stories, because he reads his fill, but I'm always ready for a new tale, tall or short. And as your employer, I believe it's my choice as to who gets to tell their tale on the first night of a voyage.”

  She smiled at Ramus and was glad to receive a smile in return.

  “So,” she continued, “who's to be first?” She turned in a slow circle, hand held out and index finger dipped and ready to point. Beko . . . she had heard his tales, and knew that some of them were sad. No need of a sad tale this early in a voyage. And besides, she hoped she would be hearing more from him, and closer. Noon could be interesting, but she had yet to really connect with him. Rhiana and Ramin would both be amusing, especially the tall Ramin, who she was sure had some serious tales beneath his droll exterior. And Lulah . . . there was a story, for sure. That eye patch, and where it had come from, and who she had killed to gain that stud.

  But perhaps that was for another night.

  “Konrad,” she said, pointing. The Serian affected a groan, but she saw his smile when he stood. Picked the right one, she thought.

  Nomi went around the group with another wine bottle, refilling mugs where they were empty. Then she sat on her saddle, glancing to her left at Ramus.

  She felt Beko's presence to her right, ten steps away yet still almost touching. This could be awkward, she thought. But when she looked at him she caught him looking away, and the campfire seemed to reach out and seed itself in her belly.

  “I’ LL TELL YOU about the first voyage I went on,” Konrad began, “and a woman I met on that voyage, and how Mancoseria has never been a safe place to live.” He paced around the fire, finishing his wine and looking down at his feet as he mused upon his tale.

  Nomi loved the way Serians told stories. She'd never heard anything quite like it; they combined personal tales with Mancoserian history, sometimes so seamlessly that she could not tell whether they were talking about themselves or their entire race. Their stories were always quite short, but they packed in enough to occupy her dreams and thoughts for days.

  Nomi leaned sideways. “You should be writing this down,” she whispered to Ramus, but he acknowledged her with a blank smile and glittering eyes. He seemed to be enjoying the wine.

  “I'm thirty-seven,” Konrad said, “and I went on my first voyage when I was twenty-two. Two years before that, I had killed my seethe-gator and risen to adulthood, and I left Mancoseria with my ’gator carving, my weapons and the clothes I walked in. My parents told me that Noreela was a safer place to be, and that I would find work in Marrakash at the Guild. My travels from my homeland to Long Marrakash . . . that's a telling for another night. A night when, perhaps, you'll want to hear about slave thieves and the wildcat herds in Cantrassa's less accessible parts.

  “Raiders are something Mancoseria is used to. They've been invading our western shores almost as long as the seethe-gatorshave been crawling onto the beaches in the east, but fighting them has never been a rite of passage. It's a necessity for our survival. No significant battles for over a hundred years, though even now there are occasional attacks from raiders hanging on to their past. But in the Founding Days of Mancoseria there was a constant trail of children traveling to the west, and adults coming back. Fighting knocks the childhood out of you—a youngster will be interested in combing beaches for strange creatures, shells and driftwood from which he can build elaborate stories. A Mancoserian adult back then would look at a beach and try to see where a raider may be hiding; behind that sandbank, beneath that convenient drift of seaweed, ready to leap from a beached boat? There's something devastating in the idea that a beach, home to waves and birds and patterns in the sand, is something other than beautiful. But back then, the raiders cut all the beauty away. And they sliced beauty from Mancoserian women's faces with their knives.

  “My first voyage was with a Voyager called Jeriglia, long dead now, a good man with a poor heart and a body not made for journeying. He took us to the northern tip of Long Marrakash. Many scoffed at his choice of voyage, but he insisted that so many wished to go far afield that what lay close had still not been fully explored. And he was right. We went through the mountains north of Long Marrakash, where we found settlements of people who had fled the city decades before and never returned. We traded with them, though they were suspicious, and their food was good, though their wine was inferior. Their women, though . . .” Konrad closed his eyes, and by the light of the campfire his heavily scarred face looked suddenly serene. Nomi coveted such a look of delight. “Their women were beautiful. Both men and women farmed the slopes, but it was the women who truly connected with the land. The men worried about mountain wolves coming down and stealing their livestock, but the woman went into the mountains to feed the wolves and keep them away from the farms. The men concerned themselves that the goodness had gone from the ground, and the women planted each spring, moving fields acro
ss the slopes and giving the ground time to find life again.”

  “More of their beauty, Konrad!” Ramin said, obviously having heard the story before.

  “Beauty, cousin? I need a better word. Language can't reach them, but perhaps art could. If only I could paint, or charcoal with shred seed. If only I could re-create their image from this fire's smoke, this twilight's generous palette.”

  “Get on with it!” Beko called, and Nomi felt an instant of annoyance at him for breaking the spell.

  “Beautiful women,” Konrad said, looking down at his feet again. “The raiders did not appreciate beauty because of the salt of the sea, the wind, the rains and snowstorms, the flying fish with their razor beaks . . . all raiders had their beauty stripped and scarred by the time they reached adulthood. So when they discovered beauty, they sought to tear it away. They would go at it with knives, or files made from urchins dried in the sun. Take out an eye, and a face is made imperfect. Take off a nose, and there's only ruin. But they went further than that. Physically, they could wreak havoc on us Mancoserians, but with each raid they left more of our men without their balls, and more of our women damaged inside. We fought hard and well, but the raiders were not seethe-gators. At least the ’gators come at you one-on-one, their intentions merely to kill and eat. The raiders were more brutal. They killed on every raid. And sometimes they ate too, tearing flesh away with their bare teeth. There are Mancoserians, now very old, who still remember the day a raider took a chunk of flesh from their breast, leg or face.

  “But back to the voyage. So, north of the mountains, Jeriglia took us to the coast. We found a small village there on the shores of the Bay of Cantrassa, and in the small natural harbor were the remains of five boats. The masts still stood high, but the hulls were rotting, and sea creatures and birds had made them their home. Some of the village was built from wood harvested from the wrecks. Other buildings had been hacked into the soft cliffs, and still others were made from stone blocks, carved carefully over years. The people there feared us at first, especially the Serians among us. They looked at our swords, and my scars terrified them most of all. When they asked where I got them, and I told them about the seethe-gators, that seemed to relax them. A little. But it was only when we met their elders— saw their scarred faces and skin scored by decades at sea—that we knew for sure these were raiders.”