Just after midday they came to the small outpost guarding a fork in the highway. From here the roads diverged to the two bridges, east and west, which led down to the opposing Canal ports of Cirna and Talos.

Taking the right fork, they soon came within sight of the east bridge, arching smoothly across the black chasm of the Canal. It was a broad, sturdy structure, wide enough for the heaviest drays to pass without

crowding.

"It's an amazing sight from up here, don't you think?" said Seregil, reining in. At the moment several wagons were coming across from the far side, followed by a turma of cavalry.

Alec felt cold sweat break out down his spine as he looked at the precipice beneath it. He'd been at the bottom of that chasm, seen its depth. To him, the great bridge looked as tenuous as a spider's web by comparison.

"Illior's Fingers, you've gone white!"

Seregil observed, looking over at him. "Maybe you'd better walk your horse. Lots of people are a bit nervous their first time across."

Alec gave a quick, tense shake of his head. "No. No, I'm fine, I–I've just never crossed anything that deep."

Embarrassed by his sudden weakness, he gripped the reins resolutely and nudged Patch into a walk.

Keeping to the center of the road as much as traffic allowed, he fixed his attention on a string of donkeys plodding along ahead of him and did his best not to think about what lay below.

"See, it's perfectly safe," Seregil assured him, riding close beside him. "Solid as the highroad itself."

Alec managed another tight nod. From far below came the faint creak of oars and ropes; sailor's voices rose like the whispering of ghosts.

"There's a good view of the west bridge from here,"

Seregil said, directing Alec's attention out over the left side of the bridge.

Alec looked and felt his belly lurch. From here, the western bridge looked like a child's construction of dry branches across a ditch, a fragile toy poised over the dizzying gorge. Closing his eyes, he fought off a sudden mental image of the stonework beneath him giving way.

"How did they build these?" he gasped.

"Those ancient wizards and engineers understood the value of forethought. They built the bridges first, then dug the Canal out beneath them."

At the far end of the bridge, Alec unclenched his aching fingers and drew a breath of relief.

A switchback road led down the cliffs to the harbor town below. Cirna was a confusing city of square, closely packed buildings lining a maze of narrow streets so sharply inclined in places that it was difficult for riders going down not to pitch forward over their horses' necks. The local inhabitants apparently favored foot traffic, for many parts of the town were accessible only by narrow stairways.

Clinging to the back of his saddle, Alec looked across the bay and located the shining columns of Astellus and Sakor, his first landmarks in Skala. There were far fewer vessels anchored in the harbor now.

Seasonal storms were already whipping all but the most hardy coasters into port for the winter.

By the time they'd wended their way down to the customs house by the harbor, both of them were grateful to set foot on level ground again. Entering the whitewashed building, they found a ruddy woman in salt-stained boots at work over a table cluttered with documents.

"Good day to you," she greeted them, as she finished with a wax seal. "I'm Katya, the harbor mistress. You gentlemen need some assistance?"

"Good day to you," Seregil replied. "I'm Myrus, merchant of Rhнminee and this is my brother Alsander. We've come to track down a shipment that went astray some three years back."

The woman shook her head with a dubious frown.

"You've got a job ahead of you, then. Do you know how many ships go through here in a season?"

"We have the name of the ship, and the month she came through, if that's any help," Alec offered. "It was the White Hart, a square-rigged trader of the Tyremian Line, Cirna registry. She'd have docked here sometime in early Erasin."

"Ah, well that's a start, anyway." Opening a side door, she led them into a room filled from floor to ceiling with ranks of scroll racks.

"If we've still got the manifest it'll be in the back there somewhere. They'd generally have been chucked out by now, but the old harbor master died in the middle of the job and I've never gotten around to finishing it."

At the back of the room she scanned the racks, then extracted a document at random. The movement disturbed a thick layer of dust that set both her and Seregil sneezing.

"Push open that window just beside you, young sir, before we all suffocate," gasped Katya, brushing at her nose.

Alec threw back the shutters. Shaking the scroll out again, she held it up to the light.

"You see how it's laid out, sirs. Here's the ship's name and the captain's at the top, followed by the date she put in and a detailed listing of cargoes delivered and taken on. These seals at the bottom belong to the captain of the vessel and the various merchants involved. This big one here in the lower right corner is the harbor master's. I'll leave you to it. Mind you close the shutters when you leave and tuck things back where you found them."

There was no system to the storage of documents except a rough chronological layering.

Pulling scrolls and checking dates, they narrowed their search down to a few likely shelves. Powdery clouds of dust roiled about them as they sorted and sneezed their way through pile after pile of musty, yellow parchments.

The writing, done aboard ships rolling at anchor, was a challenge to decipher—especially for Alec, whose skill at reading was still far from accomplished.

Gnawing absently at his lip, he puzzled his way through a confusing succession of scrawled names: The

Dog, Wyvern's Wing, Two Brothers, Lady Rygel, Silver Plume, Coriola, Sea Mist, The Wren —

Engrossed as he was in mastering the differing hands, he nearly lay aside one with the smudged entry:

White Hart.

"Here, I found it!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

Seregil sneezed again and wiped his nose inelegantly on his sleeve. "I've got one, too. The Hart was a short hauler, working the northern coasts on either side of the Canal. That means there are likely to be a number of manifests around that date. Keep looking until we're well past the time she was lost. We don't want to miss any."

They found eight in all, and spread them out side by side according to date.

"That's what I was afraid of," muttered Seregil, reading them over. "For the most part the Hart had a series of regular runs. Let's see—miscellaneous provisions to these three little towns to the west, with trade cargo back-leather goods, horn, some silver work. The eastern runs seem to have been mostly to mines on the north coast of the Inner Sea: tools and supplies, oil, cloth, medicines. Same here, and here."

"What about odd runs?" asked Alec, hunkered down beside him.

"Good point. There are a few. Poultry to Myl, wine to Nakros, silk, and a load of scented wax. Three large tapestries to a Lady Vera at Areus, one hundred bales of woolen yarn—"

"It would be hard to mistake any of that for a couple hundred weight of gold baps."

"Quite right, and I suspect our Leran friends were wise enough to stick their gold in where something heavy wouldn't attract any attention. Here are iron goods, tools, lumber—"

"That's not much help," said Alec. "After three years, how can we guess which one it was? It's impossible!"

"Probably." Walking to the window, Seregil gazed out over the darkening harbor, then sneezed again.

"Bilairy's Balls! No wonder we can't think straight! Pocket those papers, Alec. It's fresh air we need. We'll take a walk to clear our heads, then rinse our dusty gullets with a good deep mug of Cirna ale!"