‘I am following you so far.’

With a sigh, Rellock resumed, ‘She needs reasons. Reasons for everything. It’s my feeling, anyway. I’m her father, and I say she’s got more learning to do. It’s no different from being out on the water – you learn no place safe. Not real learning. No place safe, Trell.’ Shaking himself, he rose. ‘Now you gone and made my head ache.’

‘Forgive me,’ Mappo said.

‘If I’m lucky, she might do that for me one day.’

The Trell watched him finish laying out the bedroll. Mappo rose and headed to where he’d left his sack. We learn no place safe.’ Whatever sea god looks down on you, old man, must surely fix an eye on his lost child now.

Muffled in his bedrolls, unable to sleep, Mappo heard move’ ment behind him, then Icarium’s low voice.

‘Best get back to sleep, lass.’

The Trell heard wry amusement in her reply. ‘We’re much alike, you and I.’

‘How so?’ Icarium asked.

She sighed. ‘We each have our protectors – neither of whom is capable of protecting us. Especially not from ourselves. So they’re dragged along, helpless, ever watchful, but so very helpless.’

Icarium’s reply was measured and toneless. ‘Mappo is a companion to me, a friend. Rellock is your father. I understand his notion of protection – what else is a father to do? But it is a different thing, Mappo and me.’

‘Is it now?’

Mappo held his breath, ready to rise, to close this conversation now—

Apsalar continued after a moment. ‘Perhaps you are right, Icarium. We are less alike than it first seemed. Tell me, what will you do with your memories once you find them?’

The Trell’s silent relief was but momentary. Yet now he did not struggle with an urge to intervene; rather, he held himself very still, waiting to hear the reply to a question he had never dared ask Icarium.

‘Your question ... startles me, Apsalar. What do you do with yours?’

‘They are not mine – most of them, anyway. I have a handful of images from my life as a fishergirl. Bargaining in a market for twine. Holding my father’s hand over a cairn where cut flowers lay scattered on the weathered stones, a feel of lichen where once I touched skin. Loss, bewilderment – I must have been very young.

‘Other memories belong to a wax witch, an old woman who sought to protect me during Cotillion’s possession. She’d lost a husband, children, all sacrificed to Imperial glory. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that bitterness would overwhelm all else within such a woman? But not so. Helpless to protect her loved ones, her instincts – so long bottled up – embraced me instead. And do so to this day, Icarium ...’

‘An extraordinary gift, lass ...’