The mass of the provisions taken from the casks wasn't nearly enough to account for the disruption to the tree's balance. And as for Gover -- well, he'd been proven a thief, a liar and worse in the past; but he was right: he wasn't nearly stupid enough for this.

Reluctantly he released the boy's shoulder. Gover rubbed the joint, staring at him resentfully. Pallis scratched his chin. "If you didn't take the stuff, Gover, then who did? Eh?" By the Bones, they had a stowaway.

He dropped to all fours and pressed his hands and feet against the wood of a branch. He closed his eyes and let the tiny shuddering speak to him. If the unevenness wasn't at the rim, then where...?

Abruptly he straightened and half-ran about a quarter of the way around the rim, his long toes clutching at the foliage. He paused for a few more seconds, hands once more folded around a branch; then he made his way more slowly towards the center of the tree, stopping halfway to the trunk.

There was a little nest in the foliage. Through the bunched leaves he could see a few scraps of discolored cloth, a twist of unruly black hair, a hand dangling weightless; the hand was that of a boy or young man, he judged, but it was heavily callused and it bore a spatter of tiny wounds.

Pallis straightened to his full height. "Well, here's our unexpected mass, apprentice. Good shift to you, sir! And would you care for your breakfast now?"

The nest exploded. Skitters whirled away from the tangle of limbs and flew away, as if indignant; and at last a boy half-stood before Pallis, eyes bleary with sleep, mouth a circle of shock.

Gover sidled up beside Pallis. "By the Bones, it's a mine rat."

Pallis looked from one boy to the other. The two seemed about the same age, but where Gover was well-fed and ill-muscled, the stowaway had ribs like the anatomical model of a Scientist, and his muscles were like an adult's; and his hands were the battered product of hours of labor. The lad's eyes were dark-ringed. Pallis remembered the imploded foundry and wondered what horrors this young miner had already seen. Now the boy filled his chest defiantly, his hands bunching into fists.

Gover sneered, arms folded. "What do we do, pilot? Throw him to the Boneys?"

Pallis turned on him with a snarl. "Have you cleaned out the fire bowls yet? No? Then do it. Now!"

With a last, baleful glare at the stowaway, Gover moved clumsily away across the tree.

The stowaway watched him go with some relief; then turned back to Pallis.

The pilot raised his hands, palms upwards. "Take it easy. I'm not going to hurt you... Tell me your name."

The boy's mouth worked but no sound emerged; he licked cracked lips, and managed to say: "Rees."

"All right. I'm Pallis. I'm the tree-pilot. Do you know what that means?"