Once through the gate, Galen dashed along the narrow, curving street that hugged the inside of Dern's great wall. It was the fastest way to reach the opposite side of the waterfront, where the larger ships anchored off the end of a long wharf.

He hadn't imagined he'd see the stranger again, much less right here in Dern, and the possibility of retrieving his pendant loomed large in his mind, eclipsing all other thoughts.

As he neared the next gate, however, his steps slowed. What was his plan? Did he intend to march right up to the stranger and demand his pendant back? Would he even get close enough to try? The stranger hadn't hurt him in the forest, and hadn't seemed to want to; but that didn't mean he wouldn't. If he was as wealthy and important as his mode of arrival implied, and if he had guards under his command, he could have Galen arrested—or worse—just for bothering him.

He had to be careful, he decided, as he passed through the arched gates and jogged down the slippery steps towards the 'business end' of the quay; he'd watch, and wait for his chance.

At least he stood out less on the docks than he did anywhere else in Dern. As the trade ships came and went, loading and unloading cargo, the crews came ashore to stretch their legs and spend their coin; but they did that here, for the most part—outside the city walls, in the ever-changing market of little stalls that popped up along the docks. Galen was still the only Pyrran, but it was much harder to spot him amidst the diverse blend of clothing and the different shades of skin and hair.

There were bronze-skinned Yuthis with red-brown curls and green eyes; dark-skinned Edraxi with eyes like smoldering coals; strangely pale Abarrans with their white hair and red eyes, who often lost their sight at a young age; a few Sakkarans, who resembled Thrynians but had dark eyes; and, rarest of all, the reclusive Naqqiri—tall and thin, with skin nearly as black as the Edraxi, but with startling blue irises.

Usually, there would be many Thrynians here, too, mingling with the itinerant merchants and hawking their own wares, but Galen saw few blond or red heads among the crowds lining the docks.

Keeping his own head down, he ducked and scurried along the narrow path between the stalls, and made his way towards the wharf.

The wharf was a long, wide platform of wood, built on stone pillars and extending out into the deeper channel, where the larger ships docked. The Sakkaran vessel was just coming alongside as Galen reached the last market stall before the row of taverns and brothels that catered almost exclusively to the foreign merchant crews.

Situated beneath a high, sheer cliff of perpetually wet stone, above which rose the walls of Dern, the Shades—as the area was known—deserved its name in more ways than one. There were places there where the sun never shone, and if you were looking to do some less-than-legitimate business, the Shades was where to come.

Of course, Galen was forbidden to go there; but he'd been once or twice with Behn, on a dare, and knew his way around well enough.

Nearer the wharf, there were stacks of boxes and large wooden crates piled at intervals all along the quay, waiting to be wheeled out to the ships, or carted into Dern.

Galen lingered by one of these, and when he was certain no one observed him, he slipped into the shadowed space between two stacks. There, he waited and watched through the gaps as a gangplank was raised to the side of the sleek Sakkaran ship, and figures began to descend.

It wasn't a merchant vessel, Galen thought. The twenty-mile stretch of river between the seaport at Lotte's Landing and Dern was a quarter-mile wide, on average: slow-moving, and calm. Merchants packed every available space with cargo, including the decks, and the Sakarran ship's decks were clear. The crew was minimal, too, and the only passengers seemed to be the five who descended to the wharf, among whom walked the stranger with the long black braid.

As the group stepped from the wharf and onto the stone-paved quay, Galen took closer note of their appearances. Except for the stranger, they looked Sakkaran: tall and slender, with pale or lightly tanned skin, and gold or brown hair. All wore dark clothing that appeared to be a kind of uniform—black with silver filigree—and all were armed with long, thin swords in scabbards belted at the waist.

As they neared the spot where he had concealed himself, he debated what to do. Jumping from the shadows and confronting five armed men seemed unwise. It would be better to wait and watch, follow and listen; find out who the man was and what he was doing in Dern.

He drew further into the shadows between the crates as they approached, and strained his ears to catch their words as they passed. What he heard made him stop breathing.

"What a slop-trench," a male voice said over the soft tromp of boots on stone. "You're certain this is the place?"

"Every town has its trenches," another said, and Galen's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the stranger's smooth, low tones. "And no, I'm not certain. This is merely the settlement nearest the place I saw him, and thus the most sensible to search."

"What would a p'ryha be doing here, though?" a third voice asked. This one sounded female.

"Who knows. That's what we're here to find out. It shouldn't be hard. How many Pyrran boys named 'Galen' could there possibly be? If he's here, we'll find him."

Galen's breath caught in his throat and he nearly choked with surprise.

He'd dreamed of tracking the stranger down, one day, and reclaiming his pendant, but it had only been a fantasy. He'd never imagined the stranger might want to find him, and kicked himself for having given his real name.

Not that it mattered, now. There weren't many Pyrran boys in Dern; in fact, there was only one.

He waited until the group had passed on along the quay to the city gates, where they presented some kind of papers to the Guards on duty there. One looked them over, said something to her companion, and waived them through. Once they were out of sight, Galen darted from between the crates and, keeping his head low, wove his way back towards the other end of the quay. The Guard at that gate were in the same command as Triss, and knew him.

Unfortunately, that didn't always work in his favor.

As he passed beneath the arch and waved to one of the Guards on duty, another grabbed his shoulder in a gloved grip.

"Oy. Where you think you're going? No foreigners allowed without the proper pass."

Galen winced and swatted the hand aside. "Piss off, Darek. I've got to get home."

"Oh, yeah? You're going the wrong way then, aren't ya? Pyrr's that way." He pointed back towards the docks.

Galen rolled his eyes. His heart was already beating in overdrive with adrenaline, and he really didn't need Darek's assholery stressing him out more.

"Actually, it's that way." Galen pointed west, across the river. "But you'd know that if you'd made it through more than one year of school, Darek."

He tried to walk on, by Darek caught his arm in a much harder hold. "Hey. I didn't say you could go, rag," he hissed near Galen's ear. "You gotta pay the toll."

Galen swallowed. He and Darek were the same age, and Darek had been friends with him and Behn, as kids. Then something had changed. Darek was the one who'd first called him a 'pillow-slave,' and in the last few years, his behavior had taken a strange turn. Now he insulted and harassed Galen every chance he got, as if he hated him, and made crude jokes at his expense.

This was the first time he'd called him a rag, though. A 'rag' was someone who spent a lot of time on their hands and knees, or on their back, basically scrubbing the floor.

"Let me go, Darek," he said. "Or—"

"Or what? You'll tell on me to Triss?" Darek laughed, but he let Galen go with a rough shove. "Pussy."

"You wish," Galen said, just loud enough for Darek to hear, and then took off before the other boy could figure out what he meant.

It wasn't hard for Galen to guess where Darek's aggression came from, even if Darek himself remained in the dark.

Galen had known for years that only other males excited his attraction, and had accepted it as his nature; but in Thryn, such a nature was not acknowledged openly. To bed someone of the opposite sex was something to brag about, and record with nocks on one's spear; to bed someone of the same sex was something to keep to oneself: a sign of weakness, or of 'doing it wrong.' It wasn't forbidden, but it was something to laugh about, or to laugh at—as Darek did. Even if (as Galen suspected) Darek would very much like to bed someone like Galen, himself.

He tried not to think about it as he raced up the streets towards the Lower Valorous, and home. He had other things to think about.

Like how long it would take the stranger and his cohort to find someone who would point them right to his father's house.

Given the size of Dern and the prevailing distrust of outsiders, he estimated the slowest at a day; the fastest, an hour.

He decided to trust the faster estimate.

Dashing up the street, his shirt damp with sweat and his breath ragged in his throat, he let himself in through the front door and locked it behind him, then took the stairs two at a time up to his room. He shut the door at his back and leaned against it, breathing heavily as his mind raced as fast as his heart.

What would he do? Where would he go? What would he tell Harrald?

A pain lanced his heart as he looked around. His room was his sanctuary, and this was the first time in his life he didn't feel absolutely safe here.

Sunlight streamed through the wavy glass of the window panes, illuminating bare floorboards and a sparely furnished, yet carefully cultivated space.

An old chequered quilt covered the neatly made bed—a gift from Triss's mother for Midwinter one year. Rough shelves, fashioned by his father, lined one wall and housed his treasured books; there were only seven, in total, but room for more. Small curiosities collected from the forest cluttered the remaining shelves: pretty stones and oddly shaped branches, antlers and animal bones, dried fungi, and an array of insects (all of which he'd found already dead). Pride of place went to the birthday presents he'd received from Behn and Triss: a compass from Behn (which didn't really work) and a small dagger in a leather sheath from Triss.

The only other furniture was a small chest of drawers containing his clothing and personal effects, and a simple table and chair by the window, where he liked to sit and read.

It wasn't much, and not much of it would help him to survive.

Still, he grabbed the dagger and compass, and tossed them both in the leather knapsack he used for collecting samples in the woods. He pulled the wooden box Harrald had given him from where he'd stowed it under his bed, and took out the gold ring and the note, too. Stowing these in the pack, he slung it over his shoulder and turned towards the door.

At the same time, Harrald's voice called to him from below.

"Gale? You're home already? Is everything all right?"

Galen shut his eyes and bit his lip.

It wasn't fair. Harrald had loved and cared for him his whole life. He was his father, and it would be cruel to simply disappear. He owed him an explanation, at least.

Even as he set his hand to the knob, though, three loud knocks sounded from below.

Someone at the door.

Galen froze, then went to his small, circular window and looked out.

Below, five figures stood: four, grouped around one.

An hour had been too generous an estimate, it seemed.