Raffi shrugged. ‘I was in some sort of street…’ He explained briefly, bringing the dream accurately out of memory as Galen had taught him. When he’d finished, Carys grinned. ‘It was that cheese you ate.’

Galen frowned at her. ‘It may be important. Remember it.’

The ship rose suddenly; the oil lamp swung, sending wild shadows over the low ceiling. Carys sat down and laced her boots.

‘Still lost.’

They had been at sea for two days, and the weather had got steadily worse. Halfway over, the fog had come down. Now the tiny cabin was dim with it; it drifted down the steps, making the lamp a cloud of haze; the rough blankets smelt of its damp.

It was late morning, but morning and night all seemed the same.

‘Have they asked again?’ Raffi asked quietly.

‘They will,’ Galen muttered.

Almost as an answer there was a bang on the open door; Arno came in, bending his head. He looked harassed and soaked. ‘I’m sorry, Galen.’

He stood aside; behind him the skipper blocked the door, a small black-bearded man, his cap in his hand. He twisted it, nervously. ‘Keeper, the men are scared. The fog’s too thick, we don’t know how near the shore we are. The Watch patrol this strait, and if they come on board …’

‘I know,’ Galen said heavily. ‘We’re bringing you into danger.’

‘It’s just that some of the older men … they say the Order had weather-warding skills. I don’t know. But if there’s anything you can do …’

Galen was silent a moment. Carys watched him, curiously. Then he said, ‘I’ll come on deck. First I have to prepare.’

The two men backed out respectfully and Carys went with them, climbing the steps to the deck and pulling her blue coat about her. The fog was iron-grey and hung close; it tasted metallic and salty. She could barely see the ship’s rail till she bumped into it; above her the masts dissolved into dimness. Even the sea, invisible below, was silent, rising and falling as smooth as oil, the only sounds a tarred rope dragging, canvas creaking, the murmur of voices in the gloom.

Then Galen and Raffi came up. The keeper had a small object in his hand; it looked like quartz crystal. Raffi looked nervous, she noticed. Galen shoved a coil of rope aside and laid the crystal on the soaked planks of the deck; with some chalk he drew strange signs around it, some of which she recognised from her training. A bird, the seven sigils of the moons, a slashed circle, a bee.

Behind her the sailors gathered, like wraiths in the fog.

Galen straightened. Then he beckoned, and Raffi came forward. He looked pale in the dimness.

‘Aren’t you going to do this?’ the captain asked anxiously.

Galen stared at him in surprise. ‘Weather-warding is a task for scholars,’ he said curtly. ‘Not masters.’