Her fur smock was shabby and matted with filth. I
sent her for wine. When it came it was surprisingly good, the sweet and
treacherous wine of Ardcarran. I sipped it slowly, looking round.
If a caravan for Shainsa were leaving tomorrow, it would be known here.
A word dropped that I was returning there would bring me, by ironbound
custom, an invitation to travel in their company.
When I sent the woman for wine a second time, a man on a nearby couch
got up, and walked over to me.
He was tall even for a Dry-towner, and there was something vaguely
familiar about him. He was no riffraff of the Kharsa, either, for his
shirtcloak was of rich silk interwoven with metallic threads, and
crusted with heavy embroideries. The hilt of his skean was carved from a
single green gem. He stood looking down at me for some time before he
spoke.
"I never forget a voice, although I cannot bring your face to mind. Have
I a duty toward you?"
I had spoken a jargon to the girl, but he addressed me in the lilting,
sing-song speech of Shainsa.
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