And we have a byword in Shainsa: _A trail without beginning has no end_.
Right there I stopped thinking about Juli, Rindy, the Terran Empire, or
what Rakhal, who knew too many of Terra's secrets, might do if he had
turned renegade. My fingers went up and stroked, musingly, the ridge of
scar tissue along my mouth. At that moment I was thinking only of
Rakhal, of an unsettled blood-feud, and of my revenge.
Red lamps were burning inside the wineshop, where men reclined on frowsy
couches. I stumbled over one of them, found an empty place and let
myself sink down on it, arranging myself automatically in the sprawl of
Dry-towners indoors. In public they stood, rigid and formal, even to eat
and drink. Among themselves, anything less than a loose-limbed sprawl
betrayed insulting watchfulness; only a man who fears secret murder
keeps himself on guard.
A girl with a tangled rope of hair down her back came toward me. Her
hands were unchained, meaning she was a woman of the lowest class, not
worth safeguarding.
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