So she ran that way, the man at her side. At first he matched her pace, but gradually he began to lag and she had to tug at his hand. His narrow Southern eyes were now thin slits, and the color had drained from his face and lips. Garta, still half-concealed behind the eastern horizon, lit the upper floors of the city in a weak golden light that crept down the walls at a glacial pace. Frost clung to the lower windows where the light had yet to reach. Along the narrow streets shopkeepers swept the sidewalks, their breaths coming in little clouds with each push of the broom. The smell of brewing cham came and went on the wind, beckoning the citizens to rise and begin seventhday work before the final three days of the week—the days of rest—arrived. Melni bustled along with her head down, shivering against the chill wind on her still-damp clothing. The man fell a pace behind her. He looked near collapse but refused her hand now. In a half hour the streets and alleys would be packed with people.
