But it was the remaining man and woman who drew my attention, so that I
noticed the others only peripherally, in their outermost orbit. One was
Kyral, standing at the foot of the dais and glowering at me.
The other was the dark-eyed woman I had rebuked today in the public
square.
Kyral said, "So it's you." And his voice held nothing. Not rebuke, not
friendliness or a lack of it, not even hatred.
Nothing.
There was only one way to meet it. I faced the girl--she was sitting on
a thronelike chair next to the fat woman, and looked like a doe next to
a pig--and said boldly, "I assume this summons to mean that you informed
your kinsmen of my offer."
She flushed, and that was triumph enough. I held back the triumph,
however, wary of overconfidence. The gaffer laughed the high cackle of
age, and Kyral broke in with a sharp, angry monosyllable by which I knew
that my remark had indeed been repeated, and had lost nothing in the
telling. But only the line of his jaw betrayed the anger as he said
calmly, "Be quiet, Dallisa.
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