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walked down one of the twisty streets as the crowd thinned, and stopped at an inn built where two streets branched, one going up, the other down. It was an odd building, three-cornered, the front narrow where it nestled right up to the road-branch.
    Through open windows Wren heard female voices. The two girls went in, and as Wren followed, a big, friendly woman with an untidy nest of gray hair said, “Yer new. Lookin’ fer a night-berth, are ye?”
    Wren nodded, and for five clipits got a hammock in a corner. Most of the girls and women in the hammocks and bunks crammed in that room spoke languages Wren had never heard before.
    No chance of scrying Tyron there. At least she’d told Tyron she was safe. If he wanted to know anything more, he could always scry her.
    So she stretched out. Hammocks actually felt pretty good, once you got inside, and odd as it was to lie with your head and feet up, instead of flat. She fell asleep to the sounds of female voices, and woke up to the same. The sun had not come up yet, but someone had lit candles, and everyone was busy getting dressed and packing together their gear. Sailors rose early, it seemed. Even earlier than mages.
    The innkeeper set out hot biscuits slathered with honey-butter, and steamed milk with cinnamon, and Wren was glad she’d paid extra for the breakfast.
    She made a hearty meal, listening to the chatter about ships, berths, storms, bad and good captains, then once again she hefted her pack and set out for the Harbormaster’s building, though the sun had not yet risen. This time she meant to be in first, if she could.
    The purple sky of dawn silhouetted the rooftops as she and a bunch of the girls and women reached the line already formed at the Harbormaster’s doors. Wren got in line behind a pair of brothers busy shoving one another and snickering. The doors way up front opened and the line fell silent.
    “New hires here, ratings over there,” a huge man bawled, pointing to his left and right. “Newbies here! Ratings there!” That time he shouted it in the language of Fil Gaen. He shouted again, in languages Wren did not know, and she stood uncertainly, not sure what a ‘rating’ was—then decided since she didn’t know, she couldn’t possibly be one. Whereas ‘newbies,’ she understood.
    The newbie line was, at least so far, the shortest. Wren found herself standing with a varied group of mostly young people around her own age. The other line, much longer, seemed to be made up of older, tough-looking sailors, all carrying big bags. Men and women looked equally weather-beaten and fit. Many were barefoot.
    “Here, move up.” Someone behind Wren nudged her forward.
    Wren’s turn came soon; a bored-looking youth with a long face looked her over without a vestige of interest and said in the language of Fil Gaen, “Name and place of origin first. Any experience on board?”
    “Wren Porscan, Allat Los.”
    The young man gave Wren a sharp look, then he sniffed and muttered, “More landrats. Why don’t they stay on land?” as he wrote her name out.
    Wren didn’t like that look. But the clerk was just being rude—he couldn’t possibly know Wren was a mage student. She’d changed her real last name, which was Poth. Mages were supposed to keep their calling secret, unless hired to act as mages.
    “Now, what’s your experience? Hand, reef, steer?”
    Fil Gaen’s language was close to Meldrithi, but required concentration. Wren didn’t admit that she had no idea what he meant by ‘hand, reef, steer.’ “No experience on ships.”
    “Got your gear?”
    “What gear?”
    The fellow pointed a skinny finger at a sign across the room, barely visible; a group of young people stood around it. “You’ll find the recommended list there. What skills have you?”
    “I learned baking and some cooking at an inn. And if needed, I can throw pots, but not very good ones.”
    “Cook’s mate,” he said, writing it next to her name. “Always needed. Get