She looked tiny and thin and unbearably frail under the scanty folds of
her fur robe, a Dry-town woman's robe. Her wrists were manacled, the
jeweled tight bracelets fastened together by the links of a long fine
chain of silvered gilt that clashed a little, thinly, as her hands fell
to her sides.
"What's wrong, Juli? Where's Rakhal?"
She shivered and now I could see that she was in a state of shock.
"Gone. He's gone, that's all I know. And--oh, Race, Race, he took Rindy
with him!"
From the tone of her voice I had thought she was sobbing. Now I realized
that her eyes were dry; she was long past tears. Gently I unclasped her
clenched fingers and put her back in the chair. She sat like a doll, her
hands falling to her sides with a thin clash of chains. When I picked
them up and laid them in her lap she let them lie there motionless. I
stood over her and demanded, "Who's Rindy?" She didn't move.
"My daughter, Race. Our little girl."
Magnusson broke in, his voice harsh. "Well, Cargill, should I have let
you leave?"
"Don't be a damn fool!"
"I was afraid you'd tell the poor kid she had to live with her own
mistakes," growled Magnusson.
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