The large ship swayed under Jheren’s bare feet as he walked along the damp wooden deck, stretching his sore arms.  He had turned fifteen only a week before, and every day since had taken his place with forty-nine other sweaty, tired men, pumping the heavy oars for a full four hours at a time.

Approaching the mast and scurrying squirrel-like up the rigging, he nestled himself roughly halfway up the enormous wooden pillar in a bed of rope he always kept there, just for this purpose.  The view from this vantage point never ceased to awe him; he could only just make out the closest chunk of brown mainland against the eternity of blue-green ocean that extended infinitely in all directions.  Brushing sun-bleached blonde hair out of his eyes, he pulled his knees to his chest and took a deep breath of the salty-sweet sea air.

Shifting his green-eyed gaze, he let it settle on at the brilliant flags flying above the three other vessels accompanying his own ship.  All had taken down the mundane, white sails that had been flown only days before, and replaced them with the brightly colored and patterned material that all of Tiam Verden identified with only one race: Gypsies.

Squinting as the reflections of the setting sun shimmered across the choppy water, Jheren smiled proudly at his Gypsy lineage, and the privilege of living life at sea, rather than land-bound like the people of Lenhdsynn.  He had ventured off the ship when they docked in the harbor many times, but he never wandered more than a few blocks.  The dense forest of two and three story buildings seemed like a maze to him, and he quickly grew disoriented and lost his ability to navigate.

Staying by the coastline, however, had its advantages.  Plenty of unsuspecting passersby with bulging purses meandered idly in the busy streets, and, like most Gypsy boys his age, Jheren had mastered the art of picking pockets.

Leaning his back against the mast, he stretched his arms behind his head and his feet out in front of him, reminiscing.  He remembered the first time he had set foot on dry land, how he had nearly fallen over, caught off-balance by the lack of a rolling momentum beneath him.  He’d been with his mother, then, and she had spent countless hours that morning fussing over his hair and his stiff long-sleeved shirt and breeches.  She herself had put on a simple, shapeless, colorless dress and an immaculate white apron with many folds and hidden pockets to hide stolen treasures in.

He almost hadn’t recognized her in her bland land-clothes as they contrasted so drastically with her usual attire.  She never wore less than ten gold bracelets on each wrist, and several on her ankles as well.  Like the other women on the ships, she dressed in vivid greens, blues, reds and yellows; in flowing, elegant skirts and night, and wide, knee-length pants during the day.

She took her turns cooking and cleaning in the kitchens with the other females, and always danced at Gatherings, with such a fierceness and intensity that the others who followed her, though talented, could never match her skill.

Once again, Jheren smiled with pride, this time toward his mother.  Not only did she awe the community with her agility and beauty, but she also carried the bloodline of the most respected of the original Gypsy families.  She was an Assassin.

With half a thought, he Called the finger-length throwing knife from the leather sheath around his right forearm, and almost instantly felt the familiar shape against his palm.  His mother had taught him that sacred Art just last week, before embarking on another mission.

Jheren turned the small blade over in his palm, examining it carefully for the hundredth time that day, memorizing it, as his mother told him he should.  The short, wooden hilt was just large enough for him to grasp between his thumb and index finger, and had been worn smooth with time.  A cryptic, turquoise design remained unmarred on one side; it reminded him of the geysers dolphins shot from their blowholes.  He admired the blade as he twisted it back and forth, bouncing the rays of the setting sun off its smooth surface. 

“Hey, Jheren, you know if you spend too much time up here, you’re bound to turn into a crow, yourself.”

The voice startled him, and he raised his gaze from the knife to the slim, lithe female body draped lazily over the platform above him.  A considerable length of long, white-blonde hair spilled over her bare shoulders to hang just out of Jheren’s reach.  She dropped easily to his level, and sat cross-legged in front of him.

“Lazing about again, I see,” she teased, as he quickly reSheathed his precious knife. 

He scowled in return, barely able to hold back the broad smile spreading across his tanned face.  “Oh, and what are you up to, Miss Layna the Industrius?”

They shared a brief laugh, and she threw her hair over her shoulders to reveal her loose fitting, white sleeveless shirt.  Her fourteen year-old body still retained its boyish shape, and her deep blue eyes glinted with mischief.  “Unlike some people who spend their entire day sunbathing,” she rolled her eyes playfully, “I have been doing some research.”

Layna watched the interest spark in Jheren’s eyes as he waited for her to continue.  “And?” he asked impatiently.  “What did you find?”

She lowered her voice to a mere whisper.  “There’s a shipment coming in.”

Desire flashed across his already hungry gaze.  “When?”

“Tonight.”