The sun dropped further behind the clouds. On the distant walls of Praxas, the braziers were lit, tended by far more men than were needed for the chore. They were watching, Meoraq knew, but he did not think they would dare to come for him. Which was almost a pity, as he was right in the mood to deal with them.

What in Gann’s grey hell was he going to do with all these people? It was not a new thought, but it was one he hadn’t had to consider for some time and he’d never had an answer even when the matter had been pressing. Now here it was again, grossly compounded. There would always be room in the barracks for Onahi and his watchmen, as they were born under the Blade and shared some of the rights of entitlement all of Sheul’s favored had been blessed with, but what to do with these fatherless, mateless women? Meoraq could demand they be taken in, but he had no illusions; as soon as he had left again, some corruption would be found in them and they would be turned quietly back out into the wilds. So what was he supposed to do with them? Go on to Xi’Matezh with this…this caravan like nothing had happened? And after that, take them all back to Xeqor? His was the championing House of all that great city, its bloodline unstained and renown unspoiled back to the very day of its founding. He could not fill its halls with raider-slaves and remain its steward.

Meoraq hissed and rubbed at his throat, which felt disturbingly warm already. ‘Patience, Uyane. Patience is not a word to a warrior, but a way of life. Honor Him and show patience.’ “How well do you know this land?” he asked.

Onahi tipped his head toward him without taking his eye from Scott. “I have been all my life within those walls, sir, save for one summer spent with my mother’s people in Chalh.”

Meoraq grunted morosely, poked at the fire…and then looked around with a frown. “Chalh?”

“To the south, sir, and eastward. Just out of the shadow of the mountains, in the lie of the road that leads out of Yroq.”

There was a question, scarcely hinted at, in those last words. Meoraq supposed he had an accent. “We didn’t come by road,” he said. “You have kin in Chalh?”

“My mother’s kin. In service to House Ylsathoc.”

“Ylsathoc,” he echoed. The name was oddly familiar to him…and then he placed it. “I knew an exarch of that name. Exarch Ylsathoc…ah…Hi-something. Hilesh?”

The watchman of Praxas betrayed dumaq emotion at last with a snort, taking his eyes off Scott just long enough to roll them. “Hirut. Exarch, is he?”

“You know him?”

“I knew a swaggering little sprat who seemed to think the wind itself would stop blowing if he didn’t point it in the right direction. How did he turn out?”

“He’s taller.”

Onahi snorted again.

“Would you know the way to Chalh well enough to guide a man?” asked Meoraq.

“There’s little enough to know, sir. Three days of brisk travel would take us to the Prophet’s Crossways. From there, the southward road will lead us directly to the gate. It should be in fair repair,” he added. “There’s a shrine at the Crossways, popular with the priests and blade-born pilgrims.”

“But no road from Praxas.”

Onahi grunted and flexed his spines in a shrug. “The city of my father gave its love to Gann long ago. I always had a mind to make the journey to Chalh, but never won release from the warden.”

Small marvel, that. Warden Myselo would not be quick to let another man free to speak of what he may have seen, certainly not to the sort of city that birthed exarchs.

“You never stood a watch without the walls?”

“Many times.”

“You could have left.”

“I suppose so.”

“You never wished to?”

Onahi grunted and spared him half a glance before Scott redrew his attention. “It never felt like the right thing to do.”

“You left tonight.”

“Tonight, it did.”

“Sheul’s hand is ever upon the hammer,” Meoraq mused, looking around at his Amber, safe again within his keeping, and at her Nicci, safe again beneath her arm.

Onahi acknowledged this politely and quiet passed between them for a time. At length, it was the other man who broke it, raising a hand first in salute. “Forgive me, honored one, for my boldness. Is it your will to travel on to Chalh?”

“It would appear to be Sheul’s will,” Meoraq answered, taking another skewer off the coals. “How does that find you?”

“I obey Him in all things.” He paused. “It will be a relief to settle there, sir. Chalh is a good place.” He paused again, his eye drifting from Scott to the fire, and to the slave who crouched there at Amber’s side, suckling Gann’s child. “A good place for a family.”

“Perhaps you will have one someday,” Meoraq said, as if this were not an absurd suggestion to make of a Sheulteb’s bastard. He liked the man.

Meoraq took the skewers off the fire and, ignoring the immediate outstretched arms of Scott and his humans, gave them out to his brothers under the Blade.

Onahi watched Scott stomp and swear his way back over to the edge of camp while his skewer cooled, but when the human finally quieted, his attention drifted. He took a small bite, swallowed quickly, then stood up.

Meoraq prepared more kipwe to roast, watching without seeming to watch as Onahi crossed around the fire and went to one knee before Xzem. “Mother,” he said, respectful as a man at prayer. “It is Onahi Chasa before you.”

The slave ducked her head and rocked the child of Gann, giving Amber short sidelong glances until she realized who it was the man addressed. Her next wary glance was to Meoraq, but he kept his own eyes on the roasting meat and let whatever was happening here happen without him.

Onahi waited. Patience was not a word to him. Meoraq felt a little envy stinging through his grim amusement as he let this scene play itself out.              He did like the man. He was a bit of a fool, but a good man, and after the unpleasantness of this day, even a foolish sort of goodness was a soothing thing to see.

It was obvious Onahi had no experience with servants, let alone with slaves. One did not directly address them unless one were giving orders. The slave knew this even if Onahi did not. If he had simply dropped the skewer in her lap and walked on, she would be eating now, not cringing in confusion under the weight of his gentle gaze. But this was no proper household, no more than it was a raiding nest, and it seemed neither of them knew the rules of conduct.

The slave ultimately seemed to realize that the man before her would not leave until he had an answer of some sort. Short spines shivering, her neck bent so far that her chin touched her chest, Xzem finally managed a wordless mewl of feminine inquiry. The little sound cracked in her mouth, uncertain.

“It is Onahi Chasa,” he said again. And when the slave continued to shrink away, he looked back at Meoraq.

‘O my Father, why are You including me in this?’ he thought. Aloud, he grunted only, “Xzem,” as he fussed determinedly with the meat.

“Xzem,” the slave whispered and rocked the baby a little faster, as if she feared a beating to go along with the introductions. Not an unreasonable fear, all things considered.

Onahi relaxed, believing himself to be on firmer ground, rather than further out in the mire. “Mother,” he said, offering the skewer of his hunter’s portion of kipwe to a Gann-born raider’s slave. “Take and be fed.”

Xzem hesitated, but only for a moment. She gave Amber the baby. Without a word, she rose and moved to the wall of the windbreak, gripped a post, and bent. She stood her legs well apart; the wind flattened the folds of her worn shift to her body so that she might as well be naked there, and every man’s eye was on her. She waited.

Onahi stared, as all the watchmen of Praxas stared, at the rounded curve of her hip and the shallow valley beneath her shift where her sex must be (and worn well open, all things considered). Meoraq had seen many women bend for him this way and even he stared for a short time before running his brooding and distracted eye over Amber. She still wouldn’t look at him. Which was just as well, he supposed. The fires of Sheul were burning—they had not cooled completely since he’d found and reclaimed his wife—but there were twenty other people in this camp now. Meoraq was not ashamed of Amber, but he hated the thought of other people listening in while he had sex.