The first man to offer Ysabet work wanted her to kill the singer before breakfast.
He said it politely. He had washed his face and put on a coat with wooden buttons, though the cuffs were stiff with salt. Behind him three boats lay overturned on blocks. Their hulls carried narrow guiding grooves, worn smooth by years of hands.
“Not today if it can be helped,” he added. “But before it fouls the shallows. There’s children here.”
Ysabet set her pack on the harbor wall. “What is wrong with it?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need a tamer.”
“Then we’ll begin with what you’ve seen.”
His name was Deren. He managed the launch lists when anyone was launching, which nobody had done for six days. That morning he also carried messages for the village head, whose youngest daughter had vomited every time the broken pulse came across the water.
A woman emerged from the net shed with a bucket. “Tell her about the red bloom.”
