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and their own had been as wide as Syl Vor was tall, and quite, quite deep. It had been Mr. Shaper who had suggested that dirt be imported from Boss Sherton’s land, on another side of Korval’s holding, and the crack filled in.
    That had been done, but the level of fill was lower than the land Syl Vor stood on.
    “Startin’ to settle, is she?”
    The voice was right in his ear. Syl Vor jerked, face warming with embarrassment at revealing himself inattentive. He looked up into brown eyes and a thin, chapped face. A Scout, he thought, embarrassment ebbing. No one had told him that Mr. Shaper—for surely this must be Mr. Shaper—was a Scout.
    “You’d best tell your granda to call in some more dirt.” The Scout-who-was-probably-Mr.-Shaper gave him a hard look. “That’s your granda, ain’t it? Boss Conrad’s uncle?”
    Syl Vor chewed his lip. His Terran was good—he’d studied hard, understanding that, if they were forced by enemies to leave the Rock, then it would be among Terrans that the lesser danger would be found. This inquiry into lineage—it was what a civilized person wished, to be able to correctly place persons within their clan. Grandaunt Kareen had made them study clans and lineage for just that reason. But . . . Cousin Pat Rin—Boss Conrad—that was to say, Uncle Daav was, by Line, Syl Vor’s cousin . Only he was so very old—Grandaunt’s brother!—that it seemed rude to use the same mode as one would with Padi, or Quin. Or even Uncle Val Con, who had at least been fostered to yos’Galan, and was of course accounted a son of the Line . . .
    And all that was rather too much to explain in Terran to this stranger with his hard, bright eyes, so Syl Vor only nodded, not without a thought for Grandaunt and the lineage charts. At least, he thought, a nod was surely proper and acceptable here , in converse with one who was Terran.
    Proper or not, it answered. The man gave a sharp nod of his own in return.
    “I’m Yulie Shaper,” he said in his abrupt, rough way. “You come down to check the edge?”
    “No . . .” Syl Vor paused, but this was a much simpler truth. “I came because everyone has work, but not me.”
    Mr. Shaper made a hard sound—the audible equivalent of his nod.
    “Got nothin’ in hand, is it? Well, you can help me, if you wanna. I got plenty work.”
    This sounded unexpectedly promising. Syl Vor looked beyond the man, to the wagon full of . . . trays? . . . parked next to a plot of turned land.
    “I will be pleased to help you work,” he said carefully, “if I can be of use.” He paused, eying the cart once more, then looked back to the man. “What are you doing?”
    “Settin’ the spring seedlings,” Mr. Shaper said. “An’ I better get to it. Hop on over if you wanna work, and I’ll show you what to do.” He turned away, toward the plot and the wagon.
    Syl Vor leapt over the crack in the world and ran after him.
    * * *
    Setting spring seedlings was riveting work. Syl Vor handled the tender leaflets and the threadlike roots with care as he escorted each beginning plant to the hole he had prepared for it, pressing the dirt down firmly, so it stood upright. It was also warm work, and pretty soon he had taken off his jacket and hung it on the low branch of a tree, next to Mr. Shaper’s overshirt.
    Mr. Shaper was a quiet man, but observant. When Syl Vor had, in his ignorance, made a hole too deep and too wide, Mr. Shaper leaned over and showed him the proper way to go on. He occasionally broke silence to explain what a particular tray of seedlings was , the manner in which they would grow, and what sort of “eating” they would eventually provide.
    It was all so engrossing that Syl Vor quite lost track of anything but the task in hand, until Mr. Shaper broke his silence once more.
    “Here comes somethin’ big—you miss your dinner, boy?”
    Syl Vor looked up at that, fuzzy-headed, like he’d been woken up out of a sound sleep, raising his head and looking