The Cup of the World by John Dickinson

looking back at him. A nod brought the sail roaring to the deck. The boat drifted the last few yards of its journey in towards the shore. Men were walking down the jetty towards them. Someone in the bow of the boat leaped clumsily up to the planks with a rope in his hand and took a turn round an upright post. Others were climbing up to join him. The boat nuzzled at the sturdy woodwork. Derewater was behind them.
    ‘Good,’ he said. He judged his moment as the boat rose, and stepped lightly up to the jetty He turned and offered Phaedra his hand. She took it – with a tingling in her chest because she had suddenly been given what she dared not touch on the boat. There was strength in his fingers, and warmth, despite the night on the lake. She waited for the swell to lift the deck, and climbed up off the boat into a new world.
    A small crowd was there to greet them on the foreshore. There was a score of men-at-arms, and others wearing black-and-white livery. There were people from the huts,children scampering, men standing in the boats in the harbour to watch them come in: ordinary people, just as might have greeted her at any jetty of Trant's shore villages. There were smiles, laughter and chatter, as though some feat of arms or sportsmanship had just been performed. Men came to shake the boat party by the hand and slap them on the back. Everywhere there was the badge of Tarceny: a white moon on a black field, marked with a black device.
    They were looking at her – glance after curious glance was thrown her way from the hurry of talk. When she caught someone's eye they would bow or curtsy, grinning, perhaps from embarrassment. Those nearer her mumbled a few words as they did so. She looked around. He was still on the jetty with a handful of men about him. He seemed to be giving orders. He did not look her way. She stood among the crowd on the beach, wondering – what now? What did he intend? For she had not thought about what would happen after their escape.
    A woman approached her and curtsied. Her name was Elanor Massey she said. My lady must wish for a rest after her difficult journey. She would be pleased if my lady would allow her to offer her hospitality It would be poor, but upon her word it would be the best that Aclete could offer.
    She was middle-aged, a little below Phaedra's height, and smiling. She was dressed like a merchant's wife, although her head was bare. Perhaps she had put on her finest for the occasion.
    ‘Why thank you,’ said Phaedra. ‘You are very kind …’ She glanced back. He still stood among his men; but nowhe was looking in her direction, nodding, although he could not possibly have heard what had been said. Then he was talking to his followers again, fist thumping urgently into his palm to emphasize what he was saying. He had known that she would be greeted like this, Phaedra thought. Perhaps he had given orders that it should be so. She had no idea why. She did not know when or even whether they would meet again. She did not want to leave his side. Yet the woman Massey was waiting, and there seemed to be nothing for it but to do as she proposed.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘It would be most welcome.’
    ‘A night on a small-boat full of men is no fun for any woman. I've done too many of them myself. If you will please follow me, my lady. It is only a little way’
    The sun was well up now. She could feel the warmth of it already. It would be a fair day, for January. Beyond the crowd the foreshore was empty. Aclete was tiny – no more than two large houses, one of wood and the other of stone, on either side of the harbour, and a scattering of dusty huts and paths between them. Through the huts she caught glimpses of a stockade on the inland side of the hamlet.
    Phaedra realized she should say something.
    ‘They look very fine from the shore, these boats,’ she said. ‘But they are only a few feet of hard wood when you are in them.’
    ‘That's the truth. I was raised in