"When she's got where she wants to go," Harry replied.

"And where's that?"

"Back to the beginning," Harry said. "Where else?"

I in That first trip down to the harbor proved fruitless; Phoebe found nobody who knew anything about the misamee. But on the second day her relentless questioning bore fruit. Yes, one of the Dock Road bar owners told her, he knew what she was talking about. Some creature in an agonized and unfinished state had indeed been seen down here several weeks before. In fact, if his memory served, some attempt had been made to corral the abomination, for fear it had murderous appetites. to his knowledge the creature had never been caught.

aps, he suggested, it had been driven back into the sea, which everybody had assumed it emerged. In which the tide had carried its misbegotten body away.

There was both good news here and bad. She had confirmation that she was at least searching in the right quarter of the city; that was the good. But the fact that Joe had not been sighted of late suggested that perhaps the bar owner's theory was correct, and he had indeed been lost to the waters. She now went in search of somebody who had been a member of the pursuit party, but as the days went by it became more and more difficult to keep track of her progress. There were new ships docking daily, from single masted vessels to the plethora of fishing boats that plied in and out of the harbor, leaving light and returning heavy with their catch. Often she found herself neglecting her inquiries and listening, half enchanted, to the talk exchanged by the sailors and the stevedores: stories of what lay out beyond the tranquil waters of the harbor, out in the wilds and wastes of the dream-sea.

She had heard of the Ephemeris of course, and from Musnakaff of Plethoziac and Trophett6. But there were far more than these; countries and cities whose names conjured glories. Some were real places (their goods being unloaded at the dock), others in the category of fables.

Into the former group went the island of Berger's Mantle, where crews were apparently lost all the time, preyed upon by a species so exquisite the victims died of disbelief. Into the latter went the city of Nilpallium, which had been founded by a fool, and which was ruled over-justly and well, so legend went-by its founder's dogs, who had devoured him upon his decease.

The story that most engaged her, however' was that of Kicaranka Rojandi. It was reputedly a tower of burning rock, which rose straight-sided out of the sea, climbing to a height of half a mile. The species that crawled and climbed upon it were not consumed by its flames, but had to constantly fling themselves down into the steaming waves to cool their bodies, only to begin the ascent afresh when they could bear to, desperate to court and fertilize their queen, who lived encased in flame at the very summit.

The more preposterous of these stories were a healthy, indeed vital, distraction from her misery, and the true ones were curiously encouraging, evidence as they were of how many miraculous states of being were plausible here. If the citizens of b'Kether Sabbat had the courage to live in an inverted pyramid, and the fire climbers of Kicaranka Rojandi the devotion to climb their tower, believing they would one day reach their queen, should she not keep looking for her misamee?

And then came the day of the storm. It had been predicted by the retired mariners along the quayside for some time: a tempest of notable ferocity that would have all manner of deepsea fish rising in shoals from their trenches. For those enterprising fisherman willing to risk their nets, their boats, and very possibly their lives in open waters, a haul of prodigious proportions was predicted.

Phoebe was wanning herself in front of the kitchen fire when the winds started to rise, the children sitting eating stew nearby, their mother kneading bread.

"I hear a window slamming," Jarrieffa said, as the first rain pattered on the kitchen sill, and hurried away to close it.

Phoebe stared into the flames, while the gusts whooped and howled in the chimney. It would be quite a spectacle down by the Dock Road, she suspected. Ships tossing at anchor and the sea throwing itself against the harbor wall. Who knew what a storm like this would drive up onto the shore?

She rose as she formed the thought. Who knew indeed?

"Jarrieffa?" she yelled, as she fetched her coat from the closet.

"Jarrieffa! I'm going out!"

The woman was coming down the stairs now, a look of concern on her face.

"In this weather?" she said.

"Don't worry. I'll be fine."

"Take Enko with you. It's cruel out there."

"No, Jarrieffa, I can stand a little rain. You just stay in the warm and bake your bread."

Still protesting that this was not a wise thing to be doing, Jarrieffa followed Phoebe to the door, and out onto the step.

"Go back inside," Phoebe told her. "I'll be back in a while."

Then she was off, into the deluge. It had cleared the streets as effectively as the lad. She encountered scarcely a soul as she made her way down through the warren of minor streets and back alleys that were by now as familiar to her feet as Main Street and Poppy Lane. The closer she got to the water, the less cover she had to shield her from the fury of the storm. By the time she reached the Dock Road she was leaning into the wind, and more than once had to grip a wall or railing to keep herself from being thrown off her feet.

The quayside and the decks of the ships were a good deal busier than the streets she'd come through, as crews labored to secure sails and lash down cargo. One of the single-masted vessels had slipped its mooring and as Phoebe watched it was dashed against the harbor wall. Its timbers splintered, and a number of its crew jumped into the water, which was frenzied. She didn't wait to see if the vessel sank, but hurried on, past the harbor and through the warehouse district adjacent to it, out onto the shore. The waves were tall and thunderous, the air so thick with spray and rain she could not see more than a dozen yards ahead of her. But the grim fury of the scene suited her mood. She stumbled over the dark, stick rocks, daring the waters to reach high enough to claim her, yelling Joe's name as she went. The gale snatched the syllable from her lips, of course, but she strode on doggedly, her tears mingling with the rain and the spume off the dream-sea.

At last her fatigue and her despair overcame her. She sank down onto the stones, soaked to the skin, her throat too hoarse and lungs too raw to call his name again.

Her extremities were numb with cold, her head throbbing. She raised her hands to her mouth to warm her fingers with her breath, and was thinking that if she didn't move soon she might very well freeze to death when she caught sight of a figure in the mist further along the beach. Somebody was approaching her. A man, his few clothes less than rags, his body a strange compendium of forms and hues. In places he was purplish in color, his skin scaly. In others he had small patches of almost silvery skin. But the core of him-die flesh around his eyes and his mouth, down his neck and across his chest and belly-was black. She started to rise, the name she had been yelling to the wind too much for her astonished lips'

It didn't matter. He had seen her; seen her with the eyes she herself had dreamed into being. He halted now, a few yards from her, a tiny smile on his face.

She could not hear his voice@e waves were too loud-but she knew the shape of her name when he spoke it.

"Phoebe... ?" Tentatively, she approached him, halving the distance between them, but not yet coming within reach of his arms. She was just a little afraid. Perhaps the rumors of murderous intent were true. If not, where had he found the pieces of flesh to finish his body?