Humanish seldom did business there in person—both Brondt in his Service uniform and Eamon in his Elyan-style overshirt and loose trousers drew attention from the passengers and crew members who walked the concourse. Jani, however, managed to trump them both by virtue of her propitiator’s overrobe. The clash between the traditional bornsect garb and her distinctly humanish hairstyle attracted puzzled postures, and more. “We’re being followed.” Eamon glanced over his shoulder at the scattered groups that shadowed them. “You should have stripped that damned shirt off her first thing, boyo.” “I couldn’t do that,” Brondt muttered under his breath. “She’s ní Tsecha’s suborn. She’s Kièrshia.” “She’s a gutter-bred git named Jani Moragh Kilian, and she’d have shot you without a second thought.” Eamon glared at her sidelong. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you?” “Didn’t occur to me, no. Just a happy accident.” Jani made a show of sniffing the air.
