Some of us limped for a day or two,
or favored an arm or leg clawed by the catmen, but I knew that what
Kyral said was true; it was a lucky caravan which had to fight off only
one attack.
Cuinn haunted me. A night or two of turning over his cryptic words in my
mind had convinced me that whoever, or whatever he'd been signaling, it
wasn't the catmen. And his urgent question "Where's the girl?" swam
endlessly in my brain, making no more sense than when I had first heard
it. Who had he mistaken me for? What did he think I was mixed up in? And
who, above all, were the "others" who had to be signaled, at the risk of
an attack by catmen which had meant his own death?
With Cuinn dead, and Kyral thinking I'd saved his life, a large part of
the responsibility for the caravan now fell on me. And strangely I
enjoyed it, making the most of this interval when I was separated from
the thought of blood-feud or revenge, the need of spying or the threat
of exposure. During those days and nights on the trail I grew back
slowly into the Dry-towner I once had been.
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