Shadows of Sanctuary

A GIFT IN PARTING by Robert Asprin

The sun was a full two handspans above the horizon when Hort appeared on the Sanctuary docks; early in the day but late by fishermen's standard. The youth's eyes squinted painfully at the unaccustomed brightness of the morning sun. He fervently wished he were home in bed ... or in someone else's bed ... or anywhere but here. Still, he had promised his mother he would help the Old . Man this morning. While his upbringing made it unthinkable to break that promise, his stubbornness required that he demonstrate his protest by being late.

Though he had roamed these docks since early childhood and knew them to be as scrupulously clean as possible, Hort still chose his path carefully to avoid brushing his clothes against anything. Of late he had been much more attentive to his personal appearance; this morning he had discovered he no longer had any old clothes suitable for the boat. While he realized the futility of trying to preserve his current garb through an entire day's work in the boat, newly acquired habits demanded he try to minimize the damage.

The Old Man was waiting for him, sitting on the overturned boat like some stately sea-bird sleeping off a full belly. The knife in his hand caressed the stray piece of wood he held with a slow, rhythmic cadence. With each pass of the blade a long curl of wood fell to join the pile at his feet. The size of the pile was mute testament to how long the Old Man had been waiting.

Strange, but Hort had always thought of him as the Old Man, never as Father. Even the men who had fished these waters with him since their shared boyhoods called him Old Man rather than Panit. He wasn't really old, though his face was deceptive. Wrinkled and crisscrossed by weather lines, the Old Man's face looked like one of those red clay riverbeds one saw in the desert beyond Sanctuary: parched, cracked, waiting for rain that would never fall.

No, that was wrong. The Old Man didn't look like the desert. The Old Man would have nothing in common with such a large accumulation of dirt. He was a fisherman, a creature of the sea and as much a part of the sea as one of those weathered rocks that punctuated the harbour.

The old man looked up at his son's approach then tet his attention settle back on the whittling.

'I'm here,' Hort announced unnecessarily, adding, 'sorry I'm late.'

He cursed himself silently when that remark slipped out. He had been determined not to apologize, no matter what the Old Man said, but when the Old Man said nothing...

His father rose to his feet unhurriedly, replacing his knife in its sheath with a gesture made smooth and unconscious by years of repetition.

'Give me a hand with this,' he said, bending to grasp one end of the boat.

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.'

'But why?'

'Just a minute ... here!' Panit secured a handhold on the trap and heaved it on to the boat. 'Here's why.'

The trap was ruined. Most of the wooden slats which formed its sides were caved in and those that weren't dangled loose. If Hort hadn't been expecting to see a Nya trap he wouldn't have recognized this as something other than a tangle of scrap-wood.

'It's been like this for over a week!' the Old Man snarled with sudden ferocity. 'Traps smashed, nets torn. That's why those who call themselves fishermen cower on the land instead of manning their boats!' He spat noisily over the side of the boat.

Was it also why his mother had insisted Hort give the Old Man a hand?

'Row for the docks, boy. Fishermen! They should fish in buckets where it's safe! Bah!'

Awed by the Old Man's anger, Hort turned the boat towards the shore. 'What's doing it?' he asked.

There was silence as Panit stared off to the sea. For a moment Hort thought his question had gone unheard and was about to repeat it. Then he saw how deep the wrinkles on his father's face had become.

'I don't know,' the Old Man murmured finally. 'Two weeks ago I would have said I knew every creature that swam or crawled in these waters. Today ... I just don't know.'

'Have you reported this to the soldiers?'

'Soldiers? Is that what you've learned from your fancy friends? Run to the soldiers?' Panit fairly trembled with rage. 'What do soldiers know of the sea? Eh? What do you want them to do? Stand on the shore and wave their swords at the water? Order the monster to go away? Collect a tax from it? Yes! That's it! If the soldiers declare a monster tax maybe it'll swim away to keep from being bled dry like the rest of us! Soldiers!'

The Old Man spat again and lapsed into a silence that Hort was loath to break. Instead he spent the balance of the return journey mentally speculating about the trap-crushing monster. In a way he knew it was futile; sharper minds than his, the Old Man's for example, had tried and failed to come up with an explanation. There wasn't much chance he'd stumble upon it. Still, it occupied his mind until they reached the dock. Only when the boat had been turned over in the late morning sun did Hort venture to reopen the conversation.

'Are we through for the day?' he asked. 'Can I go now?'

'You can,' the Old Man replied, turning a blank expression to his son. 'Of course, if you do it might cause problems. The way it is now, if your mother asks me: "Did you take the boat out today?" I can say yes. If you stay with me and she asks: "Did you spend the day with the Old Man?" you can say yes. If, on the other hand, you wander off on your own, you'll have to say "no" when she asks and we'll both have to explain ourselves to her.'

This startled Hort almost more than the discovery of an unknown monster loose in the. fishing grounds. He had never suspected the Old Man was capable of hiding his activities from his wife with such a calculated web of half-truths. Close on the heels of his shock came a wave of intense curiosity regarding his father's plans for a large block of time about which he did not want to tell his wife.

'I'll stay,' Hort said with forced casualness. 'What do we do now?' •

'First,' the Old Man announced as he headed off down the dock, 'we visit the Wine Barrel.'

The Wine Barrel was a rickety wharf-side tavern favoured by the fishermen and therefore shunned by everyone else. Knowing his father to be a nondrinker, Hort doubted the Old Man had ever before been inside the place, yet he led the way into the shadowed interior with a firm and confident step.

They were all there: Terci, Omat, Varies; all the fishermen Hort had known since childhood plus many he did not recognize. Even Haron, the only woman ever accepted by the fishermen, was there, though her round, fleshy and weathered face was scarcely different from the men's.

'Hey, Old Man? You finally given up?'

'There's an extra seat here.'

'Some wine for the Old Man!'

'One more trap-wrecked fisherman!'

Panit ignored the cries which erupted from various spots in the shadowed room at his entrance. He held his stride until he reached the large table custom reserved for the eldest fisherfolk.

'I told you, you'd be here eventually,' Omat greeted him, pushing the extra bench out with his long, thin leg. 'Now, who's a coward?'

The Old Man acknowledged neither the jibe nor the bench, leaning on the table with both hands to address the veterans. 'I only came to ask one question,' he hissed. 'Are all of you, or any of you, planning to do anything about whatever it is that's driven you from the sea?'

To a man, the fishermen moved their gazes elsewhere.

'What can we do?' Terci scowled. 'We don't even know what's out there. Maybe it will move on...'

'... And maybe it won't,' the Old Man concluded angrily. 'I should have known. Scared men don't think; they hide. Well, I've never been one to sit around waiting for my problems to go away on their own. Not planning to change now.'

He kicked the empty bench away and turned towards the door only to find Hort blocking his way.

'What are you going to do?' Terci called after him.

'I'm going to find an answer!' the Old Man announced, drilling the room with his scorn. 'And I'll find it where I've always found answers - in the sea; not at the bottom of a wine-cup.'

With that he strode out of the door. Hort started to follow when someone called his name and he turned back.

'I thought that was you under those city-clothes,' Omat said without rancour. 'Watch over him, boy. He's a little crazy and crazy people sometimes get killed before they get sane.'

There was a low murmur of assent from those around the table. Hort nodded and hurried after his father. The Old Man was waiting for him outside the door.

'Fools!' he raged. 'No money for a week and they sit drinking what little they have left. Pah!'

'What do we do now. Old Man?'

Panit looked around then snatched up a Nya trap from a stack on the dock. 'We'll need this,' he said, almost to himself.

'Isn't that one ofTerci's traps?' Hort asked cautiously.

'He isn't using it, is he?' the Old Man shot back. 'And besides we're only borrowing it. Now, you're supposed to know this town - where's the nearest blacksmith?'

'The nearest? Well, there's a mender in the Bazaar, but the best ones are...'

The Old Man was off, striding purposefully down (he street, leaving Hort to hurry after him.

It wasn't a market-day; the Bazaar was still sleepy with many stalls unopened. It was not necessary for Hort to lead the way as the sharp, ringing notes of hammer striking anvil were easily heard over the slow-moving shoppers. The dark giant plying the hammer glanced at them as they approached, but continued his work.

'Are you the smith?' Panit asked.

This earned them another, longer, look but no words. Hort realized the question had been ridiculous. A few more strikes and the giant set his hammer aside, turning his full attention to his new customers.

'I need a Nya trap. One of these.' The Old Man thrust thetrap at the smith.

The smith glanced at the trap, then shook his head. 'Smith; not carpenter,' he proclaimed, already reaching for his hammer.

'I know that!' the Old Man barked. 'I want this trap made out of metal.'

The giant stopped and stared at his customers again, then he picked up the trap and examined it.

'And I'll need it today - by sundown.'

The smith set the trap down carefully. 'Two silvers,' he said firmly.

'Two!' the Old Man snorted. 'Do you think you're dealing with the Kitty-Kat himself? One.'

'Two,' the smith insisted.

'Dubro!'

They all turned to face the small woman who had emerged from the enclosure behind the forge.

'Do it for one,' she said quietly. 'He needs it.'

She and the smith locked eyes in a battle of wills, then the giant nodded and turned away from his wife.

'S'danzo?' the Old Man asked before the woman disappeared into the darkness from which she'd come.

'Half.'

'You've got the sight?'

'A bit,' she admitted. 'I see your plan is unselfish but dangerous. I do not see the outcome - except that you must have Dubro's help to succeed.'

'You'll bless the trap?'

The S'danzo shook her head. 'I'm a seer, not a priest. I'll make you a symbol the Lance of Ships from our cards - to put on the trap. It marks good fortune in sea-battles; it might help you.'

'Could I see the card?' the Old Man asked.

The woman disappeared and returned a few moments later bearing the card, which she held for Panit. Looking over his father's shoulder, Hort saw a crudely drawn picture of a whale with a metal-sheathed horn proceeding from its head.

'A good card,' the Old Man nodded. 'For what you offer - I'll pay the two silvers.' She smiled and returned to the darkness. Dubro stepped forward with his palm extended. 'When I pick up the trap,' Panit insisted. 'You needn't fear. I won't leave it to gather dust.'

The giant frowned, nodded and turned back to his work.

'What are you planning?' Hort demanded as his father started off again. 'What's this about a sea-battle?'

'All fishing is sea-battle,' the Old Man shrugged.

'But, two silvers? Where are you going to get that kind of money after what you said in the boat this morning?'

'We'll see to that now.'

Hort realized they weren't returning to town but heading westward to the Downwinders' hovels. The Downwinders or ... 'Jubal?' he exclaimed. 'How're you going to get money from him? Are you going to sell him information about the monster?'

'I'm a fisherman, not a spy,' the Old Man retorted, 'and the problems of the fishermen are no concern of the land.'

'But...' Hort began then lapsed into silence. If his father was going to be closed-mouthed about his plans, no amount of browbeating was likely to budge him.

Upon reaching Jubal's estate, Hort was amazed at the ease with which the Old Man handled the slaver's underlings who routinely challenged his entry. Though it was well known that Jubal employed notorious cut-throats and murderers who hid their features behind blue-hawk masks, Panit was unawed by their arrogance or their arms.

'What do you two want here?' the grizzled gate-keeper barked.

'We came to talk to Jubal,' the Old Man retorted.

'Is he expecting you?'

'I need an appointment to speak with a slaver?*

'What business could an old fisherman have with a slaver?'

'If you were to know, I'd tell you. I want to see Jubal.'

'I can't just...'

'You ask too many questions. Does he know you ask so many questions?'

That final question of the Old Man's cowed the retainer, confirming Hort's town refined suspicions that most of the slaver's business was covert rather than overt.

They were finally ushered into a large room dominated by a huge, almost throne like, chair at one end. They had been waiting only a few moments when Jubal entered, belting a dressing-gown over his muscular, ebony limbs.

'I should have known it was you. Old Man,' the slaver said with a half-smile. 'No other fisherman could bluff his way past my guards so easily.'

'I know you prefer money to sleep,' the Old Man shrugged. 'Your men know it too.'

'True enough,' Jubal laughed. 'So, what brings you this far from the docks so early in the day?'

'For some the day's over,' Panit commented dryly. 'I need money: six silver pieces. I'm offering my stall on the wharf.' -

Hort couldn't believe what he was hearing. He opened his mouth to speak, then caught himself. He had been raised to know better than to interrupt his father's business. His movement was not lost on Jubal, however.

'You intrigue me. Old Man,' the slaver mused. 'Why should I want to buy a fish stall at any price?'

'Because the wharf's the only place your ears don't hear,' Panit smiled tightly. 'You send your spies in - but we don't talk to outsiders. To hear the wharf you must be on the wharf- I offer you a place on the wharf.'

'True enough,' Jubal agreed. 'I hardly expected the opportunity to fall my way like ripe fruit...'.,..•.

'Two conditions,' the Old Man interrupted; 'First; four weeks before you own my stall. If I repay the money - you don't own my stall...'

'All right,' the slaver nodded, 'but...'

'Second: anything happens to me these next four weeks you take care of my wife. It's not charity; she knows the wharf and the Nya - she's worth a fair wage.'

Jubal studied the Old Man a moment through hooded eyes. 'Very well,' he said finally, 'but I sense there is much you are not telling me.' He left the room and returned with the silver coins which rattled lightly in his immense palm. 'Tell me this. Old Man,' he asked suspiciously, 'all these terms - why don't you just ask for a loan?'

'I've never borrowed in my life,' Panit scowled, 'and won't start now. I pay as I go - if I don't have enough I do without or I sell what I must.'

'Suit yourself,' the slaver shrugged, handing over the coins. 'I'll be expecting to see you in thirty days.'

'Or before.'

The silence between father and son was almost habitual and lasted nearly until they had reached the town again. Strangely, it was the Old Man who broke the silence first.

'You're being quiet, boy,' he said.

'Of course,' Hort exploded. 'There's nothing to say. You order things we can't pay for, sell your life-work to the biggest crook in Sanctuary and then wonder why I'm quiet. I know you don't confide in me - but Jubal! Of all the people in town ... And that talk about conditions! What makes you think he'll stand by any of them? You don't trust soldiers but you trust Jubal!'

'He can be trusted,' the Old Man answered softly. 'He's a hard one when he's got the upper hand - but he stands by his word.'

'You've dealt with him before? Nothing can surprise me now,' Hort grumbled.

'Good,' his father nodded, 'then you'll take me to the Vulgar Unicorn?'

'The Vulgar Unicorn!' He was surprised.

'That's right. Don't you know where it is?'

'I know it's in the Maze somewhere, but I've never been there.'

'Let's go.'

'Are you sure you want the Vulgar Unicorn, Old Man?' Hort pressed. 'I don't think a fisherman's ever set foot in there. The people who drink at the Unicorn are mercenaries, cut-throats and a few thieves thrown in for good measure.'

'So they say,' the Old Man nodded. 'Wouldn't be going there if they weren't. Now, you leading or not?'

All conversation stopped as they entered that infamous tavern. As he struggled to see in the darkness, Hort could feel the eyes of the room on his, sizing them up, deciding if he was a challenge or a victim.

'Are you gentlemen looking for someone?' The bartender's tone implied he didn't think they should stay for a drink.

'I want some fighting men,' the Old Man announced. 'I've heard this is the place.'

'You heard right,' the bartender nodded, suddenly a bit more attentive. 'If you don't know who you want, I'll be glad to serve as your agent - for a modest fee, of course.'

Panit regarded him as he'd regarded his fellow fisherfolk. 'I judge my own people - go back to your dishes.'

The bartender clenched his fists in anger and retreated to the other end of the bar as the Old Man faced the room.

'I need two, maybe three men for a half-day's work,' he called loudly. 'A copper now and a silver when it's over. No swords or bowmen -just axes or pole-arms. I'll be outside.'

'Why are we going to talk to them outside?' Hort asked as he followed his father into the street.

'I want to know what I'm getting,' the Old Man explained. 'Couldn't see a thing in that place.'

It took most of the afternoon but they finally sorted out three stalwarts from the small pack that had followed them. The sun was dipping towards the horizon as Panit gave his last man the advance coin and turned to his son.

'That's about all we can do today,' he said. 'You run along and

see your friends. I'll take care of the trap.'

'Aren't you going to tell me your plan?' Hort pleaded. 'Haven't got it all worked out yet,' the Old Man admitted, 'but if you want to see what happens, be on the dock at first light tomorrow. We'll see how smart this monster is.'

Unlike the day before, Hort was at the dock well before the dawn. As the first tendrils of pre-dawn light began to dispel the night, he was pacing impatiently, hugging himself against the damp chill of the morning.

Mist hung deep over the water, giving it an eerie, supernatural appearance which did nothing to ease Hort's fears as he alternately cursed and worried about his absent father. Crazy old man! Why couldn't he be like the other fishermen? Why take it on himself to solve the mystery of the sea-monster? Knowing the best way to combat the chill was activity he decided to launch the family's boat. For once, he would be ready when the Old Man got here.

He marched down the dock, then slowed, and finally retraced his steps. The boat was gone. Had Sanctuary's thieves finally decided to ply their trade on the wharf? Unlikely. Who would they sell a stolen boat to? The fishermen knew each other's equipment as well as they knew their own.

Could the Old Man have gone out already? Impossible - to be out of the harbour before Hort got there, the Old Man would have had to take the boat out at night - and in these waters with the monster...

'You there!'

Hort turned to find the three hired mercenaries coming down the pier. They were a sullen crew by this light and the pole-arms two of them carried gave them the appearance of Death's own oarsmen.

'We're here,' the leader of the trio announced, shifting his battle-axe to his shoulder, 'though no civilized man fights at this hour. Where's the old man who hired us?'

'I don't know,' Hort admitted, backing down from this fierce assemblage. 'He told me to meet him here same as you.'

'Good,' the axe-man snarled. 'We've appeared, as promised. The coppers are ours - small price for a practical joke. Tell that old man when you see him that we've gone back to bed.'

'Not so fast.' Hort surprised himself with his sudden outspoken courage as the men turned away. 'I've known the Old Man all my life and he's no joker. If he paid you to be here, you'll be needed. Or don't you want the silver that goes with those coppers?'

The men hesitated, mumbling together darkly.

'Hort!' Terci was hurrying towards them. 'Whafs going on? Why are there cut throats on the dock?'

'The Old Man hired them,' Hort explained. 'Have you seen him?'

'Not since last night,' the lanky fisherman replied. 'He came by late and gave me this to pass to you.' He dropped three silver coins into the youth's palm. 'He said if he wasn't here by mid-day that you were to use this to pay the men.'

'You see!' Hort called to the mercenaries as he held up the coins. 'You'll be paid at mid-day and not before. You'll just have to wait with the rest of us.' Turning back to Terci he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'What else did the Old Man say - anything?'

'Only that I should load my heaviest net this morning,' Terd shrugged. 'What's going on?'

'He's going to try to fish for the monster,' Hort explained as the Old Man's plan came clear to him. 'When I got here his boat was gone.'

"The monster,' Terd blinked. The Old Man's gone out alone after the monster?'

'I don't think so. I've been here since before first light. No, even the Old Man wouldn't take a boat out in the dark - not after the monster. He must be...'

'Look there! There he is!'

The sun had finally appeared over the horizon and with its first rays the mist began to fade. A hundred yards offshore a small boat bobbed and dipped and in it they could see the Old Man pulling frantically at the oars.

As they watched he suddenly shipped the oars, waiting expectantly. Then the boat was jerked around, as if by an unseen hand, and the Old Man bent to the oars again.

'He's got it! He's got the monster!' Terci shrieked, dancing with delight or horror.

'No!' Hort disagreed firmly, staring at the distant boat. 'He doesn't have it. He's leading it, baiting it into shallow water.'

It was all clear to him now. The metal trap! The monster was used to raiding the Old Man's traps, so he fed it one that couldn't be crushed. Now he was teasing the unknown creature towards shore, dragging the trap like a child drags a string before a playful kitten. But this kitten was an unknown, deadly quantity that could easily attack the hand that held the string.

'Quick, Terci,' Hort ordered, 'get the net! It won't follow him on to the shore.'

The lanky fisherman was gaping at the scene, his mind lost in his own thoughts. 'Net the monster?' he mumbled. 'I'll need help, yes, help ... HELP!' He fled down the dock screaming.at the still-dark, quiet huts.

This was not the Maze where cries for help went unheeded. Doors opened and bleary-eyed fishermen stumbled out to the wharf.

'What is it?'

'What's the noise?'

'Man the boats! The Old Man's got the monster!'

'The monster?'

'Hurry, Ilak!'

'The Old Man's got the monster!' The cry was passed from hut to hut.

And they came, swarming over their boats like a nest of angry ants: Haron, her sagging breasts flopping beneath the nightdress she still wore; Omat, his deformed arm no hindrance as he wrestled his boat on to the water with one hand, and in the lead, Terci, first rowing, then standing, in the small boat to shout orders at the others.

Hort made no move to join them. They were fishermen and knew their trade far better than he. Instead he stood rooted on the dock, lost in awe of the Old Man's courage.

In his mind's eye Hort could see what his father saw: sitting in a small boat on an inky sea, waiting for the first tug on the rope - then the back-breaking haul on the oars to drag the metal trap landward. Always careful not to get too far ahead of the invisible creature below, yet keeping its interest. The dark was the Old Man's enemy as much as the monster was; it threatened him with disorientation - and the mist! A blinding cloud of white closing in from all sides. Yet the Old Man had done it and now the monster was within reach of its victims' net.

The heavy net was spread now, forming a wall between the mystery beast as it followed the Old Man and the open sea behind them. As the boats at either end of the net began to pull for shore, the Old Man evened his stroke and began to move steadily through the water ... but he was tired now; Hort could see that even if no one else could.

'There!' Hort called to the mercenaries, he pointed towards the shore-line. 'That's where they'll beach it! Come on!'

He led their rush down the dock. He heard rather than saw the net scoop up its prey; a cheer went up from the small boats. He was waiting waist-deep in the water when the Old Man's boat finally reached the shallows. Grabbing on to the cleats, Hort dragged the boat to the beach as if it were a toy while his father sagged wearily between the oars.

'The trap,' the Old Man wheezed through ragged gasps, 'pull it in before those fools get it tangled in their nets!'

The rope was cold and hard as cable, but Hort dragged the trap hand-over-hand away from the sea's grip. Not surprisingly, it was full of Nya that shimmered and flopped in the morning sun. Without thinking, Hort reached behind his father and dumped the fish into the boat's live-well.

All the boats were ashore now, and there was splashing and thrashing around the net in the shallows.

'What is it like?' the Old Man gasped; he could scarcely raise his head. 'What's the monster like?'

'It looks to be a large crab,' Hort announced, craning his neck. 'The mercenaries have got to it.'

And they had; waving the crowd back they waded into the water to strike at the spidery giant even before the net was on the shore.

'I thought so,' the Old Man nodded. 'There weren't any teeth marks on the traps. Some damn sorcerer's pet run loose,' he added.

Hort nodded. Now that he could see the monster it fitted the rumours he had heard from time to time in the town. The Purple Mage had kept large crabs to guard his home on the White Foal River. Rumour said he was dead now, killed by his own magic. The rumour was confirmed by the crab; it must have wandered downstream to the sea when its food no longer appeared.

'Whose catch is that?'

Hort turned to find two Hell Hounds standing close beside him. Simultaneously he noticed the crowd of townsfolk which had gathered on the streets.

'Everybody's,' the Old Man declared, getting his strength back. 'They caught it. Or anybody's. Maybe it's Terci's - it's mangled his net.'

'No, Old Man,' Terci declared, approaching them. 'It's your catch. There's none on the wharf who'd deny that - least of all me. You caught it. We netted and gaffed it for you after the fight.'

'It's yours then,' the Hell Hound decided, facing the Old Man. 'What dp you plan to do with it?'

It flashed across Hort's mind that these soldiers might be going to fine his father for dragging the crab to the beach; they might call it a public nuisance or something. He tightened his grip on the Old Man's arm, but he'd never been able to hold his father. -

'I don't know,' Panit shrugged. 'If the circus was still in town I'd try to sell it to them. Can't sell it for food - might be poisonous wouldn't eat it myself.'

'I'll buy it,' the Hell Hound announced to their surprise. "The Prince has tasters and a taste for the unknown. If it's poisonous it will still make table talk fit for an Emperor. I'll give you five silvers for it.'

'Five? Ten - times're hard; I've got debts to Jubal for my fish-stall,' the Old Man bargained, no more awed by the Hell Hounds than he had been by Jubal himself.

At the mention of the slaver's name, the tall Hell Hound scowled and his swarthy companion sucked air noisily through his teeth.

'Jubal?' the tall man mumbled as he reached for his pouch. 'You'll have your ten silvers, fisherman - and a gold piece besides. A man should have more than a slaver's receipt for this day's work.'

'Thank ye,' Panit nodded, accepting the coins. 'Take your watch to the marshes and swamps; there's never one crab but there's ten. Corner 'em on dry land an' Kitty-Kat'll eat crab for a month.'

'Thanks for your information,' the Hell Hound grimaced. 'We'll have the garrison look into it.'

'Not a bad day's catch,' the Old Man chortled after the retreating soldiers, 'and Nya besides. I'll send two in luck-money to the blacksmith and the S'danzo and get new traps besides.' He cocked his head at his son. 'Well,' he tossed the gold coin in the air and caught it again, 'I've got this too, to add to your other gift.'

'Other gift?' Hort frowned.

The smile fell from the Old Man's face like a mask. 'Of course,' he snarled. 'Why do you think I went after that thing anyway?'

'For the other fishermen?' Hort offered. 'To save the fishing ground?'

'Aye,' Panit shook his head. 'But in the main it was my gift to you; I wanted to teach you about pride.'

'Pride?' Hort echoed blankly. 'You risked your life to make me proud of you? I've always been proud of you! You're the best fisherman in Sanctuary!'

'Fool!' the Old Man exploded, rising to his feet. 'Not what you think of me; what you think of yourself!'

'I don't understand,' his son blurted. 'You want me to be a fisherman like you?'

'No, no, no!' the Old Man leaped to the sand and started to march away, then returned to loom angrily over the youth. 'Said it before - not everyone can be a fisherman. You're not - but be something, anything, and have pride in it. Don't be a scavenger, drifting from here to yon. Take a path and follow it. You've always had a smooth tongue - be a minstrel, or even a storyteller like Hakiem.'

'Hakiem?' Hort bristled. 'He's a beggar.'

'He lives here. He's a good storyteller; his wealth's his pride. Whatever you do, wherever you go - take your pride. Be good with yourself and you'll be at home with the best of'em. Take my gift, son; it's only advice, but you'll be the poorer without it.' He tossed the gold coin to the sand at Hort's feet and stalked off.

Hort retrieved the coin and stared at the Old Man's back as he marched away.

'Excuse me, young sir?' Old Hakiem was scuttling along the beach, waving his arms frantically. 'Was that the Old Man - the one who caught the monster?'

'That's him,' Hort agreed, 'but I don't think this is a good time to be talking to him.'

'Do you know him?' the storyteller asked, holding fast to Hort's arm. 'Do you know what happened here? I'll pay you five coppers for the story.' He was a beggar, but he didn't seem to starve.

'Keep your money, Hakiem,' the youth murmured, watching the now-empty beach. 'I'll give you the story.'

'Eh?'

'Yes,' Hort smiled, tossing his gold coin in the air, catching it and putting it in his pocket. 'What's more, I'll buy you a cup of wine to go with it - but only if you'll teach me how to tell it.'