The dying. The burning. The toppling minaret. The drums and chanting. And the sleep-coma. Aleytys slipped off the bunk and stretched, working out the kinks that came from sitting still too long. She bent over Maissa frowning at the deep bloody bruises where the maddened woman had tried to tear free from the ropes. She touched the knots, frown lines deepening. “Later, Captain. When we get out of this mess.” She touched Sharl briefly, inspected the padding that held him tightly. The ride out would be rough. She plucked at the quilting. No time to get him in a sling. This would have to do. She pushed the drawer nearly shut. The blue steel blade of the knife shimmered like silk on the coarse ticking of the mattress. She threaded a piece of rope through a loop in the top of the sheath, then shoved the knife home. After tying the ends together in a neat square knot she slipped the loop over her head and one shoulder so that the knife hung beside her hip. Before leaving the caravan she tapped her temple, smiling at the sound of the chime.
