Then reserve,
like a lowered curtain, shut itself over his face, concealing a brief
satisfied glimmer. "No," he lied, and stood up.
"We leave at first daylight. Have your gear ready." He flipped something
at me, and I caught it in midair. It was a stone incised with Kyral's
name in the ideographs of Shainsa. "You can sleep with the caravan if
you care to. Show that token to Cuinn."
* * * * *
Kyral's caravan was encamped in a barred field past the furthest gates
of the Kharsa. About a dozen men were busy loading the pack
animals--horses shipped in from Darkover, mostly. I asked the first man
I met for Cuinn. He pointed out a burly fellow in a shiny red
shirtcloak, who was busy at chewing out one of the young men for the way
he'd put a packsaddle on his beast.
Shainsa is a good language for cursing, but Cuinn had a special talent
at it. I blinked in admiration while I waited for him to get his breath
so I could hand him Kyral's token.
In the light of the fire I saw what I'd half expected: he was the second
of the Dry-towners who'd tried to rough me up in the spaceport cafe.
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