Chaos multiplied, even on Cerdin. Moth regarded the stacks of printouts with a shiver, and then smiled, a faint and febrile smile. She looked up at Tand. “Have you made any progress toward the Istran statistics?” “They’re there, Eldest. Third stack.” She reached for them, suffered a fluttering of her hand which scattered them across the table: too little sleep, too little rest lately. She drew a few slow breaths, reached again to bring the papers closer. Tand gathered them and stacked them, laid them directly before her. It embarrassed and angered her. “Doubtless,” she said, “there are observations in some quarters that the old woman is failing.” From Tand there was silence. She brushed through the papers, picked up the cup on the table deliberately to demonstrate the steadiness of her right hand…managed not to spill it, took a drink, set it down again firmly, her heart beating hard.
