blend with the townsfolk.
He found the citizens remarkably pleasant once he had removed the mark of the
fishing community. They were most helpful in teaching him what to do with his
money. He acquired a circle of friends and spent more and more time away from
home until…
‘Your mother tells me you’re leaving.’
The Old Man’s sudden statement startled Hort, jerking him rudely from his mental
wanderings. In a flash he realized he had been caught in the trap his friends
had warned him about. Alone in the boat with his father he would be a captive
audience until tile tide changed. Now he’d hear the anger, the accusations and
finally the pleading.
Above all Hort dreaded the pleading. While they had had their differences in the
past, he still held a lingering respect for his father, a respect he knew would
die if the Old Man were reduced to whining and begging.
‘You’ve said it yourself a hundred times. Old Man,’ Hort pointed out with a
shrug, ‘not everyone was meant to be a fisherman.’
It came out harsher than he had intended, but Hort let it go without more
explanations. Perhaps his father’s anger would be stirred to a point where the
conversation would be terminated prior to the litanies of his obligations to his
family and tradition.
‘Do you think you can earn a living in Sanctuary?’ the Old Man asked, ignoring
his son’s baiting.
‘We … I won’t be in Sanctuary,’ Hort announced carefully. Even his mother
hadn’t possessed this last bit of knowledge. “There’s a caravan forming in town.
In four days it leaves for the capital. My friends and I have been invited to