Clutching her leather bag close to her chest, she wandered aimlessly, passing weaving men, laughing and shouting in the moonlit night. Wharf Lane had a sinister reputation — a place where tough sailors and soldiers mixed in the taverns lining the street. Stopping for a moment, she looked out at the Mere, past the forest of masts and riggings belonging to the boats occupying the wharves. Somewhere across the water lay the Acre, and past that, her former home, Tintaren — now just a burned out shell of a building. Jacq’s home lay there too, and she hoped against hope he might still be there when she managed to make her way across Mistmere.
She felt bone tired and a little dizzy, and the pain from her empty stomach would not leave her alone. Somehow, she must find some money for Pierre and a
