Just that. No acceptance of the apology. No angry reproach. It was as if he had expected his reluctant assistant would be late.

Hort fumed about this as he grunted and heaved, helping to right the small boat and set it safely in the water. His annoyance with the whole situation was such that he was seated in the boat, accepting the oars as they were passed down from the dock, before he remembered that his father had been launching this craft for years without assistance. His son's inexpert hands could not have been a help, only a hindrance.

Spurred by this new irritation, Hort let the stem of the boat drift away from the dock as his father prepared to board. The petty gesture was in vain. The Old Man stepped into the boat, stretching his leg across the water with no more thought than a merchant gives his keys in their locks.

'Row that way,' came the order to his son.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Hort bent to the task.

The old rhythms returned to him in mercifully few strokes. Once he had been glad to row his father's boat. He had been proud when he had grown enough to handle the oars himself. No longer a young child to be guarded by his mother, he had basked in the status of the Old Man's boy. His playmates had envied his association with the only fisherman on the dock who could consistently trap the elusive Nya - the small schooling fish whose sweet flesh brought top price each afternoon after the catch was brought in.

Of course, that had been a long time ago. He'd wanted to learn about the Nya then - he knew less now; his memories had faded.

As Hort had grown, so had his world. He learned that away from the docks no one knew of the Old Man, nor did they care. To the normal citizens of Sanctuary he was just another fisherman and fishermen did not stand high in the social structure of the town. Fishermen weren't rich, nor did they have the ear of the local aristocrats. Their clothes weren't colourful like the S'danzo's. They weren't feared like the soldiers or mercenaries.

And they smelled.

Hort had often disputed this latter point with the street urchins away from the docks until bloody noses, black eyes and bruises taught him that fishermen weren't good fighters, either. Besides, they did smell.

Retreating to the safety of the dock community Hort found that he viewed the culture which had raised him with a blend of scorn and bitterness. The only people who respected fishermen were other fishermen. Many of his old friends were drifting away - finding new lives in the crowds and excitement of the city proper. Those that remained were dull youths who found reassurance in the unchanging traditions of the fish-craft and who were already beginning to look like their fathers.

As his loneliness grew, it was natural that Hort used his money to buy new clothes which he bundled and hid away from the fish-tainted cottage they called home. He scrubbed himself vigorously with sand, dressed and tried to blend with the townsfolk.

He found the citizens remarkably pleasant once he had removed the mark of the fishing community. They were most helpful in teaching him what to do with his money. He acquired a circle of friends and spent more and more time away from home until...

'Your mother tells me you're leaving.'

The Old Man's sudden statement startled Hort, jerking him rudely from his mental wanderings. In a flash he realized he had been caught in the trap his friends had warned him about. Alone in the boat with his father he would be a captive audience until tile tide changed. Now he'd hear the anger, the accusations and finally the pleading.

Above all Hort dreaded the pleading. While they had had their differences in the past, he still held a lingering respect for his father, a respect he knew would die if the Old Man were reduced to whining and begging.

'You've said it yourself a hundred times. Old Man,' Hort pointed out with a shrug, 'not everyone was meant to be a fisherman.'

It came out harsher than he had intended, but Hort let it go without more explanations. Perhaps his father's anger would be stirred to a point where the conversation would be terminated prior to the litanies of his obligations to his family and tradition.

'Do you think you can earn a living in Sanctuary?' the Old Man asked, ignoring his son's baiting.

'We ... I won't be in Sanctuary,' Hort announced carefully. Even his mother hadn't possessed this last bit of knowledge. "There's a caravan forming in town. In four days it leaves for the capital. My friends and I have been invited to travel with it.'

'The capital?' Panit nodded slowly. 'And what will you do in Ranke?'

'I don't know yet,' his son admitted, 'but there are ten jobs in Ranke for every one in Sanctuary.'

The Old Man digested this in silence. 'What will you use for money on this trip?' he asked finally.

'I had hoped ... There's supposed to be a tradition in our family, isn't there? When a son leaves home his father gives him a parting gift. I know you don't have much, but...' Hort stopped; the Old Man was shaking his head in slow negation.

'We have less than you think,' he said sadly. 'I said nothing before, but your fine clothes, there, have tapped our savings; the fishing's been bad.'

'If you won't give me anything, just say so!' Hort exploded angrily. 'You don't have to rationalize it with a long tale of woe.'

'I'll give you a gift,' the Old Man assured him. 'I only wanted to warn you that it probably would not be money. More to the left.'

'I don't need your money,' the youth growled, adjusting his stroke. 'My friends have offered to loan me the necessary funds. I just thought it would be better not to start my new life in debt.'

'That's wise,' Panit agreed. 'Slow now.'

Hort glanced over his shoulder for a bearing then straightened with surprise. His oars trailed loose in the water.

'There's only one float!' he announced in dumb surprise.

'That's right,' the Old Man nodded. 'It's nice to know you haven't forgotten your numbers.'

'But one float means...'

'One trap,' Panit agreed. 'Right again. I told you fishing was bad. Still, having come all this way, I would like to see what is in my one trap.'

The Old Man's dry sarcasm was lost on his son. Hort's mind was racing as he reflexively manoeuvred the boat into position by the float.

One trap! The Old Man normally worked fifteen to twenty traps; the exact number always varied from day to day according to his instincts, but never had Hort known him to set less than ten traps. Of course the Nya were an unpredictable fish whose movements confounded everyone save Panit. That is - they came readily to the trap if the trap happened to be near them in their random wanderings.

One trap! Perhaps the schools were feeding elsewhere; that sometimes happened with any fish. But then the fishermen would simply switch to a different catch until their mainstay returned. If the Old Man were less proud of his ability and reputation he could do the same...

'Old Man!' The exclamation burst from Hort's lips involuntarily as he scanned the horizon.

'What is it?' Panit asked, pausing as he hauled his trap from the depths.

'Where are the other boats?'

The Old Man returned his attention to the trap. 'On the dock,' he said brusquely. 'You walked past them this morning.'

Open-mouthed, Hort let his memory roam back over the docks. He had been preoccupied with his own problems, but... yes! there-had been a lot of boats lying on the dock.

'All of them?' he asked, bewildered. 'You mean we're the only boat out today?'

'That's right.'