Zurzal’s body was stretched out in apparent ease, a turgid greenish liquid hiding much of his length. But he had one shoulder hunched over the edge of that miniature pool, the one which ended in the very slowly growing arm replacement, and the small fingers of that undersized hand were moving along the tiles, trailing through a violet soap smear. Though the oathsman was apparently just waiting with a roll of towel across his shoulder, he did not miss the least movement of those small fingers. Zurzal was mapping out for him the ways outside these rooms as far as the Zacathan himself had followed them. But what the Zurzal spoke of audibly was something entirely different. “The Illustrious Holder,” he commented, “is well served. He also possesses a Jat.” “Learned One, a Jat is—?” “Something one would not expect to find this far from Varingholm. There is a ban on their export therefrom—” “A Jat is?” Jofre persisted. That the Holder had another possession which was or seemed to be as rare as a Jewelbright of Asborgan meant resources—or power.
