Blankets are hung over every aperture, the air is thick with smells: old fish, the oil in the lamp, man-sweat, a lingering hint of incense too redolent of norit for the comfort of either. Outside, the wind is blowing hard; the boat rubs against the wharf, breathing and flexing and creaking, caught by the tail of a storm passing out to sea and flicking at the edges of the estuary. Coperic smoothed a hand along the thin tough paper (a waterproof membrane, the innerskin of a kertasfish, and the small closely packed lines of glyphs on it written in waterproof ink) and read in a low drone the words written there. The fisher Intii, Vann, was illiterate by choice, but his memory was phenomenal. If he had no chance to pass on the written report, he could whisper it into the ears of that member of Coperic’s web who came for it. He listened, eyes hooded beneath brows like tangled hedges. “The Army is complete. No arrivals for the past three tendays. These are the numbers. Five bands of youngling Sleykinin.
