Sarka reasoned that the gods of affliction, death, and misfortune were unlikely to need pretty things. It would not do to rest her hopes on the Opal Road if even Tayo, not a fortunate soul himself, had no hopes for her success.

Considering this, Sarka resolved to turn her sights to the mortal residents of Deynaport. It was late, though. She had nowhere to go for lodging, and no coin to pay for a bed-or for food, for that matter. She wandered back toward the docks through empty streets, realizing she truly had no home.

She nested down in an alley with her back propped against a broken brick stairway. She wrapped her arms around her seamstress's satchel, the one thing of value she possessed, and closed her eyes. Mistrust of the city and a sharp awareness of her solitude kept her too alert to sleep, so she spent the hours considering her way forward. It was a long time before she slept, and when she did, her rest was broken and shallow.

The next morning, she woke with her plans still fresh in her mind. The city had begun to stir. From her vantage point, Sarka watched early-morning passersby cross to and fro along the street. She stretched her arms and her fingers, sore and ill-rested. Then, she opened up her satchel and prepared to set to work, shielded by the broken staircase from the prying eyes of strangers.

What she accomplished that long morning was not her best work; she balanced her considerable skill with a need for efficiency, for she did not wish to spend another night on the streets. When she was done with her project, she had a sampler to prove her worth to a prospective employer. She had used the very last of her cloth, all that remained after bandaging Ro's foot. It showed an assortment of plain stitches for tailoring and mending, and a few of examples of her best embroidery, too. It was early afternoon when she finished.

Sarka stood up, stretching her arms and rolling her head to loosen her stiff neck. Her shoulders ached, especially the one that the wildcat had crushed. It was getting better with time, but it still pained her. And her rump was numb from sitting so long on the cobblestones.

She packed up her needles, thread, and shears, and then she tucked her sampler into her satchel as well. Shouldering the pack, she struck out for the road that led to the docks, the one that had seemed like a merchant's thoroughfare.

Sarka could not make out all the words on the street signs, which put her at a disadvantage, but most of them had pictures: an apple, a pint of ale, a book. She walked along the street, clutching her satchel to her side, studying the signs and ignoring the people. At last, she came upon a building with a sign painted with a spool of thread and a needle.

Sarka scowled at the word printed on the spool, puzzling out the letters in her head. She gave up after a moment's effort, deciding that if the word wasn't "tailor," it was close enough. She went inside.

The proprietor of the small shop was behind a counter, wrapping some garments in brown paper. Shelves along one wall were stocked with bolts of cloth, and mannequins on the other side of the room were dressed with finished garments in an array of styles.

"No time for measurements today," the main said, looping twine around the package. He deftly knotted the twine as he looked up with a smile. "We're closing soon, and I've deliveries. I'll be glad to help you in the mor...ning."

Sarka ignored the stutter, knowing he had simply noticed her face. "I did not come to be measured. I came looking for work."

The man's smile faded. "No work for you here, lass. Go on. I'm closing up."

"Let me show you what I can do before you turn me away."

The smile completed its descent; it was now properly a frown. "You'll find no charity here, girl. Go, I said!"

Sarka stared at him without expression. Her stomach growled. "I haven't even shown you."

"This is a tailor's shop. Whatever you have, or whatever you do," and here he grimaced in disgust, "I'm no customer for you."

"I don't want a customer-not you, anyway," Sarka said, now with a frown of her own. "I'm new in Galdren, and I am a seamstress. I'm very talented. If you have all the hands you need, I'll go elsewhere, but you'll be sorry for the loss of me."

The tailor snorted. Then, perhaps seeing how serious Sarka was, he sighed. "Fine. If you're no scullery maid, show me. Did you make those rags you wear?"

Sarka reached into her satchel and produced the sampler. She crossed the room and offered it to the tailor, who spread it out on his counter and leaned in closely to examine the stitches she'd made. At length, he looked up at her.

"This is a very fine hand. Where did you steal it?"

Sarka was doing her best not to lose her temper. She drew a breath and let it out as she scraped up the last of her patience. "I did not steal it."

"You look like a beggar."

"I am. I have no money, no place to stay. I need work. But this is my own hand."

He sized her up. "What happened to your face?"

Would Sarka ever leave the legacy of her battle with the wildcat behind? No; it was written across her face forever. "I was attacked by a wild animal. It's dead. I'm not."

The tailor cracked a smile. "Where are you from, girl?"

"I won't tell you."

"Aye, well, you don't have to. I know this sort of work. I haven't seen it in a piece, that's for certain. The people who knew how to do it are all dead, or forgotten. Only fine ladies with lots of money to spend have this stuff any more."

"Then let them spend their money in your shop."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm hungry. I do not jest when I'm hungry."

The man carefully folded the sampler and set it aside. "I'm Rohk," he said. He offered Sarka his hand. "This is my shop. My wife used to work it with me, but she's gone. Being a blacksmith's wife was more to her liking."

In the ashlands, people grasped wrists to greet one another, and so that is what Sarka did; Rohk's expression told her it wasn't the custom here, but it was too late not to make a fool of herself. "I'm Sarka."

"I want sixty per cent of your profits," he said.

Sarka raised her brows. "You can have a third, if I can have room and board."

Rohk laughed. "Are you mad, woman?"

"No. I'm leaving." Sarka reached for her sampler, but Rohk slapped his hand down on the work before he could take it. His expression gave him away: Sarka was worth more than she had hoped, it would seem. "A third for you, room and board for me."

"That's a lot, girl, even for what you have to offer."

"Then let some other poor tailor take me on."

Rohk appraised her again with his eyes, his lips pressed together. "Half, and you can have room and board. Look, girl-that's the best you're going to get in this city. I'm telling you true. You won't find another who'll give you as much."

Sarka frowned at him across the counter, folding her arms. She stared at him for a moment, taking in the greedy glint in his eye. She could see him tallying the sums in his mind. He would cheat her the first chance he got. She knew it.

But she was hungry.

"Fine," she said. For now.

"I'll show you where you can sleep."