On the outskirts of Minas Tirith Harbor.
A party of more than thirty rode slowly along a newly compacted gravel road.
Tristan led the way.
He had changed into a gray hunting outfit that allowed him to move easily, and held a riding crop, occasionally pointing it toward the construction sites beside the road.
Most of the party were young men.
They were well dressed, their expressions a mixture of reserve and curiosity.
They were the younger sons of families belonging to major merchant guilds, trade guilds, and the nobility of the territories around the Grey Sea.
The family titles and most of the wealth went to the eldest sons. Men like them had to serve a higher-ranking noble, become Priests in the Church, or strike out on their own.
The battle had made a name for the Gray Marsh Fief, so their elders had sent them here.
"Shipyard No. 3 is on the left." Tristan tightened his reins, and his horse stamped twice in place. "The foundations have just been finished. We can start laying keels next month. The Golden Sail Merchant Guild has reserved the first three berths."
Several young men exchanged glances.
The news that the Golden Sail Merchant Guild was moving its headquarters here was no secret in their circles.
Oak crates bearing the Golden Sail emblem lined the roadside. Workers chanted in rhythm as they hauled stone toward the site.
"Mr. Lorenzo," a round-faced young man said, urging his horse a few paces forward, "I heard those tidal flats will all be parceled out as fiefs?"
He pointed toward the long, drab gray embankment in the distance.
Inside it, a vast expanse of seawater had been enclosed. The water level was falling, exposing a dark bed of mud.
Tristan glanced at him.
He was the