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lots gone back to thorns and worse. The plants gradually closed in on the old road. When he reached the top of the hills, all was thorns and chaparral and touch-me, just sparse enough to permit passage. It was nearly dark when he reached a crest of a ridge. There were lights ahead, the distance enough that he didn’t want to walk farther. He used the dying twilight to find a way into the chaparral.
    He spent the night in chaparral, guarded by the malevolent plants he knew how to avoid. It was better than trying to find a safe place among people he didn’t know.
    The morning sun was bright, but there was a thin haze on the ground. Sanvin Street led down the ridge, then up across another. It took him half an hour to get to the top of the second ridge. When he reached it, he could see a highlight sun glare, the harbor, off ahead and to the left.
    He had reached the top. He knew of no band who ruled here, and that was ominous enough. He crouched below the chaparral until he was sure no eyes were about.
    He stood on a barren ridge, but the other side of the hill was—different. Sanvin Street led down the hills. Partway down, it divided into two parallel streets with olive trees growing in the grassy center strip, and to each side of the divided street there were houses, wood as well as stone.
    He was watching from the chaparral when a wagon came up from the harbor. He had plenty of time to move, but close to the road the chaparral was too sparse to hide him, and farther in were the thorns. He stood in the sparse brush and watched the wagon come up the hill. As it passed him the kinless driver and his companion exchanged glances with Whandall and drove on. They seemed curious rather than angry, as if Whandall were no threat at all.
    Couldn’t they guess that he might bring fathers or older brothers?
    He went back to the road and started down the hill, openly now, past the houses. He guessed this was Lord’s Town, where Mother’s Mother used to go when she was a girl.
    Each set of houses was banded around a small square, and in the center of each square was a small stone cairn above a stone water basin, like Peacegiven Square but smaller. Water trickled down the cairn into the basin, and women, Lordkin and kinless alike, came to dip water into stone and clay jars. Down toward the harbor was a larger square, with a larger pool, and a grove of olive trees. Instead of houses, there were shops around the square. Kinless merchants sat in front of shops full of goods openly displayed, free for the gathering, it seemed. In the olive grove people sat in the shade at tables and talked or did mysterious things with small rock markers on the tables. Shells—and even bits of gold and silver—changed hands.
    Were these Lords? They looked like no one he had ever seen. They were better dressed than the kinless of Serpent’s Walk, better dressed than most Lordkin, but few had weapons. One armed man sat at a table honing a big Lordkin knife. No one seemed to notice him; then a merchant spoke to him. Whandall didn’t hear what was said, but the merchant seemed friendly, and the armed Lordkin grinned. Whandall watched as a girl brought a tray of cups to a table. She looked like a Lordkin.
    No one paid him any attention as he walked past. They would glance at him and look away, even if he stared at them. He wasn’t dressed like they were, and that began to bother him. Back of the houses, he could sometimessee clothes hanging on lines, but gathering those might be riskier than remaining as he was, and how could he know that he was wearing them right?
    He went on to the bottom of the hills, nearer yet to the Lords’ domain. Soon there was black, barren land in the distance to his right, with a gleam of water and a stench of magic. It had to be magic; it was no natural smell. Breathing through his mouth seemed to help.
    The place drew him like any mystery.
    Whandall knew the Black Pit by repute. Scant and