It will not spoil or rot. It never goes out of fashion. It will never wear out in your lifetime or those of any descendant you might imagine.” – Parjek Ran-Haalamar, trader Birdsong filled the air, and dawn’s light glistened on the dew-speckled grass. There was an earthy smell, one that Madlin could barely recall anymore. It came to Tinker’s Island a few days a year, and mostly while she was still abed. But Khesh was vast, and aside from the depths of winter, there was at least some portion of the empire that had such mornings. With Hayfield and Jamile in tow, she marched across the untamed grass, which snarled and tugged at her ankles while leaving them wet. “Why doesn’t anyone live here?” Madlin asked the fourth member of their group. He was a Kheshi of middle years, dressed more for a job of ink and paper than for a countryside jaunt. He wore his receding blond hair pulled back in a tail, and a pair of round spectacles gave him a superficial resemblance to her father.
