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to walk, boy. Too far to swim.”
    “But people do walk there, and travel there. If I could find such, I could travel with them. I’m in no hurry, but I can’t go south. The Karvi aren’t good people.”
    Kafoe spat and nodded. “Too true. They steal our people and take them as slaves when they can. Our tribe, we have a seer to protect us, and we’re too slippery besides. The Karvin king says, ‘oh, the parents sell the children willingly,’ but it’s a lie. None of us would sell a child, and especially not to them .” He spat again.
    “They take children from the tribes?” One of the reasons the Uemiriens were so disliked in Sardelsa was the belief that they would sell their children for gold. Gil and Sofia had always said it was a lie, but Yveni hadn’t known how it had come about.
    “Yes. Raiders come. Mainly inland. Twenty or so every year. Only children, so they can tell their lies. The children know the truth, but who believes a Uemirien child over one of your people?”
    Yveni flushed. “There are no slaves in Tuelwetin.”
    “No, but you take the Karvin money and the Karvin trade.” He nodded at the goods and boxes on the beach, rescued from the sea. “Some of this was made with slave hands.”
    He had no argument against this, because it was true. It had been a delicate point of diplomacy between the Unity of duchies in Tuelwetin and the Karvin king for a long time, but no one wanted to upset the balance of trade over an issue which, when it came down to it, didn’t affect Tueler citizens at all. Yveni’s father had muttered about it often, and done what he could, but one duchy out of twenty, however rich, could not turn opinion quickly.
    “But now you understand why I don’t want to go there.”
    “You’re in no danger, boy.”
    “Still…is there a way to Horches?”
    Kafoe’s face creased up as he thought. “North of here, fifty miles or so, is a village called Lild. Fisherfolk, like us, only they farm too. Every two years they take a kardip herd across country to the Grekil market. This is their year.”
    “There’s a road between Grekil and Horches. People travelling. I could get a lift, buy a ride, maybe.”
    “Got to get there first, boy. The herders walk all the way, and it’s eighteen hundred kilometres.”
    “I don’t mind. My father’s dead—where else will I go?”
    Kafoe nodded in acknowledgement.
    “When do the herders leave?”
    “End of spring, when the kardip calves can walk. A month or so. But they might not let you go with them.”
    “If I don’t ask, I won’t know. Kafoe—will you take me? Or can someone else?”
    “Long way, boy, for a favour. What can you offer?”
    Yveni cast about. His pack had washed ashore. The sight of the cheap books Gerd bought him had made his eyes fill, but they’d be no use to these men, and the clothes wouldn’t appeal. “My father’s boots. They’re good, tough leather. They’ll last a long time. His knife too.”
    Kafoe pursed his lips. “Maybe.”
    “And this?” Yveni lifted the chain off from around his neck and held out the whistle hanging from it.
    “What is it?”
    He demonstrated and Kafoe fell back in shock at the sharp, astonishing noise. He stared at Yveni for a few moments, then laughed, holding his sides in merriment. “Oh yes. For that thing? Someone will take you, even without the boots.”
    Two days later, without any fuss, and no farewells except to Sorke and Hiljn, Yveni slipped out of the camp in the company of Hilario, Kafoe’s young, bright-eyed grandson. Their journey to Lild would take four or five days, Hilario judged. He was in a chatty, cheerful mood, glad of the excursion and delighted with the compensation for his trouble. His light voice rang out along the shore in the clear dawn air, along with a blast from his new whistle every few minutes. It didn’t look like he would tire of the sound anytime soon.
    Yveni, walking beside him and determined to keep up despite his shorter legs, let