Cuinn barely glanced at the cut stone and tossed it back, pointing out
one of the packhorses. "Load your personal gear on that one, then get
busy and show this mush-headed wearer of sandals"--an insult carrying
particularly filthy implications in Shainsa--"how to fasten a
packstrap."
He drew breath and began to swear at the luckless youngster again, and I
relaxed. He evidently hadn't recognized me, either. I took the strap in
my hand, guiding it through the saddle loop. "Like that," I told the
kid, and Cuinn stopped swearing long enough to give me a curt nod of
acknowledgment and point out a heap of boxed and crated objects.
"Help him load up. We want to get clear of the city by daybreak," he
ordered, and went off to swear at someone else.
Kyral turned up at dawn, and a few minutes later the camp had vanished
into a small scattering of litter and we were on our way.
Kyral's caravan, in spite of Cuinn's cursing, was well-managed and
well-handled. The men were Dry-towners, eleven of them, silent and
capable and most of them very young.
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