«Althaea.» She blushed as she picked up his bag. «Shall I take your case for you as well?»

«No,» he grunted. «I'll manage.»

«I'm really grateful. I should have been back at the Orphée a quarter of an hour ago.»

«Is it a tight schedule?»

«Oh no, but Mother likes to get home before dark. Visiting Kariwak takes a whole day for us.»

«Should he be sailing in this condition?»

«He'll just have to,» she said with a sudden flash of pique. «He does it every time we bring him. And it's always me who has to go looking in the taverns for him. I hate those places.»

«Is this your father?»

She let out a guffaw, then clamped her mouth over her mouth. «I'm sorry. No, he's not my father. This is Rousseau. Ross. He lives with us, helps around the house and garden, things like that. When he's sober,» she added tartly.

«Where do you live?»

«Mother and I live on Charmaine; it's an island out in the archipelago.»

He hid a smile. Perfect. «Must be a tough life, all by yourselves.»

«We manage. It won't be for ever, though.» Her angular shoulders jerked in what he thought was supposed to be an apologetic shrug; it was more like a convulsion. Eason couldn't recall meeting someone this shy for a long while. It made her appealing, after an odd sort of fashion.

• • •

The Orphée was tied up to a quay near the gap in the harbour wall. Eason whistled in appreciation when he saw her. She was a trim little craft, six metres long, with a flat-bottomed wooden hull and a compact cabin at the prow. The two outriggers were smaller versions of the main hull, with room for cargo; all archipelago craft had them, a lot of the channels between islands were too shallow for keel fins.

Bitek units were dovetailed neatly into the wooden superstructure: nutrient-fluid sacs with ancillary organs in the stern compartment, a powerful-looking three metre long silver-grey serpent tail instead of a rudder, and a membrane sail whorled round the tall mast.

Althaea's mother was sitting cross-legged on the cabin roof, wearing a faded blue denim shirt and white shorts. Eason had no doubt she was Althaea's mother: her hair was much shorter, but the same colour, and though she lacked the girl's half-starved appearance her delicate features were identical. Their closeness was uncanny.

She was holding up an odd-looking pendulum, a slim gold chain that was fastened to the centre of a wooden disc, five centimetres in diameter. The disk must have been perfectly balanced, because it remained horizontal.

When Eason reached the quayside directly above the Orphée he saw the rim of the disc was carved with spidery hieroglyphics. It was turning slowly. Or he thought it was. When he steadied Ross and looked down properly, it was stationary.

The woman seemed absorbed by it.

«Mother?» Althaea said uncertainly.

Her gaze lifted from the disk, and met Eason's eyes. She didn't seem at all put out by his appearance.