Young Dallahath Halosword walked carefully down the stairway to the cabins of the old ship, swaying from side to side as he tried to keep his balance, a bowl of watery chowder gripped tightly in each hand. He and his guardian, Sir Caderis, had spent the last two days squatting in the cramped hold of a hastily converted cargo ship with nearly a hundred other refugees. It was dark and cold, and the thick, musty air stank terribly. Wordlessly, Dallahath handed Caderis his bowl, then sat on the edge of a rickety crate and began to eat. * * * * * * * * *