Shiv had the grace to blush and started to explain what the Archmage had discovered so far about the largely unknown, aetheric magic that the Elietimm could wield with such frightening ease.

The ocean dock at Zyoutessela,

before the watchtower was built on the heights

and while the old fishmarket still stood

The circle of the harbor was packed with vessels and not the fishing boats that usually swung from the quay sides. Tall-masted, high-sided ocean ships clustered awkwardly along docks built for smaller craft, each busy with sailors and less agile folk loading and stowing a wide variety of gear.

“Where do you want this, then, Esquire?” A docker halted, red-faced as he balanced a weighty sack on one shoulder.

“That’s beans, is it?” Temar checked the stamp on the leather tag and then ran a careful finger down his list. “Fore-hold, next to the little casks.”

The man grunted and moved away, several others following him.

“Wait a moment.” Temar moved to check their loads. “Fine, go with him.”

He watched a second line of porters carrying caskets and leather bags down to the accommodation deck, making sure each had the charcoal mark that signified official permission. As the last man disappeared down the ladder he heaved a sigh and glanced up to check the sun; with all the noise, he hadn’t heard any chimes since dawn and had no idea how much of the day had passed. At least it wasn’t too hot this early in the season, he mused, and the rain that had plagued their previous days’ labors was holding off.

Just as he thought this, a chance shift in the wind brought a faint brazen ringing to Temar’s ears. Dockers and porters turned to look at him expectantly and he tucked his list into the breast of his jerkin.

“Noon break!” confirmed Temar with a loud shout, the workmen’s faces mirroring his own relief at the prospect of a rest and something to eat.

He tucked his lists into the front of his dull-green jerkin and made his way through the crowds toward one of the fisher-inns, opening a waxed note-tablet pulled from one pocket and carefully scoring through the tasks he’d accomplished that morning. More were left than cancelled but at least it was all progress. Temar smiled a little ruefully to himself; what would Lachald think if he could see him now, ink-stained hands and charcoal smudging his plain cuffs?

“You’re looking very cheerful, Esquire D’Alsennin.”

Temar looked up to see he had nearly walked into a thin man with a shock of gray hair swept back from a hatchet-thin face. Green eyes, pale as a cat’s, stared at him, unblinking.

“Messire Den Fellaemion.” Temar made a quick reverence and wiped his palm on his breeches before offering it.

“How goes the loading?” Den Fellaemion acknowledged Temar’s courtesy with a brief handshake.

“Very well, Messire, we should have all the dried goods aboard by the end of the day and almost all the accommodation problems have been resolved.”

“Good,” the lean man nodded approvingly. “Do you have a current lading list for my clerks?”

“You’ll have it by sunset,” Temar promised, hesitating a moment then taking out his note-tablet again to add it to his list of things to do. Better look like a child learning letters in a dame-school, he felt, than risk forgetting.

A faint smile flickered across the nobleman’s pallid lips. “Take some refreshment with me, D’Alsennin.”

“Gladly.” It may have sounded more like a command than an invitation but Temar was too thirsty to worry about that.

Den Fellaemion looked around the quayside and signalled to a lackey with a wicker basket slung over one shoulder. “Let’s find a quiet corner.”

That was an easier task than it would have been before the noon chime, but the dock was all but deserted now as the toiling throng pressed into the taverns and clamored for a meal. Temar led the way to a ledge cut into a rocky outcrop where he’d seen women mending crab traps. He took the wineskin offered and quenched his considerable thirst gratefully.

“Ah, excellent.” Den Fellaemion opened the basket and took out fresh bread, spiced chicken, dry-cured ham and a yellow cheese wrapped in butter muslin. He passed Temar a dish with its lid tied and sealed. “See what’s in that, will you?”

It proved to be a medley of fruits in sweet wine, and Temar’s eyes brightened.

“Den Rannion’s lady still seems convinced I need feeding up,” observed Den Fellaemion in an amused tone. “I think there’s enough for two here; do help yourself.”

“Thank you.” Temar pulled his knife from his belt and cut himself a generous slice of the crumbly cheese.

“There’s something I need to mention to you.” The older man leaned back and closed his eyes as he enjoyed a gleam of spring sunshine that picked out the subtle brocade in his severe gray clothing.

Temar hurriedly ran through his recent duties in his mind but was unable to find any immediate cause for concern. “Yes?” Perhaps the Messire had some new responsibility for him.

“With your House providing four ships, provisioning several more besides and many of your tenants signing on for the colony, you are suddenly one of the major sponsors of our expedition, did you realize this?”

“My grandfather is the Head of our House; he deserves that honor.” Temar wondered what Den Fellaemion meant.

“Your grandfather is not here. You are.” The green eyes opened and fixed Temar with a piercing stare. “Many people will be looking to you as their patron, both before we sail and once we settle across the ocean. You will have a significant client base, if you choose to exploit it. What are your intentions in that area?”

Temar spread his hands uncertainly. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“It is time that you did,” said Den Fellaemion crisply. “If you are intending to live off the backs of your tenants in the style of such Houses as Nemith, I think our venture can do without you, despite the resources you offer. If, however, you intend to take a full part in leading the colony, shouldering your obligations and responsibilities, then I can see you could even hope to become a valued deputy to Den Rannion and myself. There are precious few of the noble class involved in this expedition and since the commonalty will look to us, as they are used to doing, how we conduct ourselves will have a major impact on the success or otherwise of the colony.”

Temar abruptly snapped his mouth shut. “D’Alsennin has always been a House most conscious of its duties to its tenants and the interests of the Empire,” he said stiffly.

Den Fellaemion regarded him, unsmiling. “Then would you care to explain why you have been sampling the favors of nearly every willing maiden who has crossed your path since you arrived here? There are many outmoded traditions that I intend to leave behind on this dockside and the right of a Sieur or his designate to make free with the female tenantry is certainly one of them.”

Taken completely unawares, Temar said the first thing that came into his head. “My grandfather wishes me to marry—”

“I do not recommend choosing a wife by trying her paces between the sheets; you test horses before purchase, not women, if you want peace at your hearth side anyway.” Den Fellaemion’s sudden smile wiped away his stern expression. “Keep your breeches laced, Temar. We are a small community and I don’t want you raising expectations or outrage by mistaking a lass’s meaning.”

Temar blushed and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, Messire, I hadn’t been thinking—”

“No harm done.” Den Fellaemion stood suddenly and waved to someone on the far side of the harbor. “Guinalle; come and join us!”

Temar looked around to see a young woman wrapped in a blue-gray cloak picking her way carefully across the cobbles slick with spray. She was of less than common height but neatly made with an open, heart-shaped face.