decoration, like that statue. The staring man will probably come to look at me all the time.
She crawled to the edge of the pool. There was nowhere shallow to lie. If she tried to sleep in there, she would drown. She would have to wake every few hours and wet her skin, or risk drying out and… She reached down and cupped some water in her hand. Bringing it to her mouth, she sipped.
Plain water, she thought. I wonder how long it will be before I start to sicken.
She shook her head. I’m too tired to think about it. Lying down on the cool stone floor, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
Looking up from her work, Emerahl squinted into the fine rain. A dismal day, she thought. But the captain is happy. We netted a fine catch.
The high wall of the Toren cliffs loomed over them on the right. They had been much farther out to sea when they had passed the lighthouse the day before. Looking at the distant white tower, Emerahl had expected to feel regret. She had spent so long living in that remote ruin. Instead she felt repelled.
All those years living in isolation with only lowlife smugglers for neighbors. I don’t know why I didn’t die of boredom. It’s so good to be among decent, hard-working people again.
Emerahl began to turn back to the fish-gutting but a light caught her eyes and drew her attention back to the cliff. As a fold of the rock face drew back, more lights appeared. This was their destination. Yaril.
There—so she had been told—lived a young man who had been saved from drowning by The Gull but six months before. She had heard many tales of the mysterious sea boy now. Everyone who lived on the coast knew someone who could relate an encounter with The Gull. These same tales were repeated in every town. Perhaps nobody was related to the heroes and the tellers were just claiming to know them in order to tell a better tale, but these towns were small and it was possible they all knew each other, even if distantly.
In fact, it was amusing to think of them all linked by these stories.
Yaril was in plain sight now. To the fishermen it was merely a good place to sell their catch. She turned her attention back to gutting the fish. The captain had only agreed to take her to Yaril if she made herself useful. She didn’t mind the work. It kept her hands busy while she thought about all she’d learned.
As the boat drew closer to the town, the crew left the preparation of the catch to Emerahl while they navigated into a shallow bay. She hurried through the last of the fish then rose and gathered her belongings. Her clothes stank of fish and her skin was sticky from sweat and salt water. As soon as she was ashore she would book a room and wash herself and her garments.
The crew guided the boat up to a short jetty. The moment it was close enough, she leapt off. Turning back once, she gave the captain a nod of thanks before striding into Yaril.
Unlike most of the towns on the coast of Toren, Yaril did not sit at the top of the cliff. Behind the fold in the rock wall a narrow river had worn the sheer drop into a steep, broken slope. Houses had been built on this out of the same stones as the cliffs—right up to the edge of the cascading river.
It was a town with no roads, just staircases going up and down and narrow paths running across the slope. Emerahl paused to smile at a man walking down the stairs who was staring at her with open curiosity.
“Good day to you. Would there be lodging for travellers here?”
The man nodded. “The Widow Laylin has a room for rent. Number three, third level. That’s the next level up. It’s on the right.”
“Thank you.”
She continued up the stairs and turned on to one of the narrow walkways. Stopping at a house with a large number three carved into the door, she knocked. The door opened and a large middle-aged woman looked Emerahl up and down.
“I hear you have a room to let,” Emerahl said. “Is it available?”
The woman’s eyes brightened. “Yes. Come in. I’ll show it to you. What is your name?”
“Limma. Limma Curer.”
“Curer by trade as well as by name,” the woman observed.
“That’s right.”
The widow led her into a long,