The coastline was enormous. That was the problem. From the cliff above the Mediterranean, the Apprentice could see blue water in every direction. Ships moved against the horizon. Villages broke the shoreline. Coves disappeared behind headlands. Farther south, sails clustered around a city large enough to be seen through the morning haze. The Apprentice pointed. “There.” The Harbormaster did not look. “The great port?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because everyone goes there.”

At first light, the land looked worthless. That was the consensus. Dust. Scrub. Stone. A dry wash cutting through the eastern side. Twenty-seven square miles of country that had produced nothing anyone could point to. No derrick. No pumpjack. No black stain in the dirt. No neighbor bragging about production.