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the keep。 He swear it is so； that he sees it himself。 〃
Septcs； who had been dabbing at the front of his robe while Rovalles spoke； now leaned forward。 〃Like me； Isbeorn； you know how full of superstition people can be； yes？ If only this man told the story； I would call him madman and have done。 But many are speaking quietly here in the Sancellan； many who say Elias has trafficked with demons and evil spirits。〃 He touched Isgrimnur's hand with his bent fingers； the duke fought an urge to recoil。 〃You must have heard of the siege； even though you say you left the north before it ended。 What is the truth behind these stories？〃
Isgrimnur stared at the old monk for a moment； wondering if there was more to this question than met the eye。 At last he sighed。 This was a kindly old man with a harelip； nothing more。 These were frightening times…why should Septes not try to cadge information from someone who had e from the heartland of rumor？
〃I have heard little more than you；〃 he said at last； 〃but I can tell you that evil things are afoot…things that godly men would rather not know about； but damn me if that makes them go away。〃 Septes' eyebrow twitched upward again at Isgrimnur's language； but he did not interrupt。 Isgrimnur； warming to the subject； spoke on。 〃Sides are forming； you could say； and some that look prettier are really the fouler。 I can't say more than that。 Don't believe everything you hear； but don't be too quick to cry 'superstition；' either。。。〃 He broke off； realizing that he was entering dangerous territory。 There was little more he could say without attracting attention as a source of substantiation for the gossip that was doubtless flying through the Sancellan Aedonitis。 He could not afford to be the subject of attention until he had learned if Princess Miriamele was indeed here。
The bits and pieces he had doled out； however； seemed to satisfy Septes。 The old man leaned back； still scratching idly at the drying soup stain on his breast。 〃Ah；〃 he nodded。 His voice just carried above the tabletalk。 〃Weliaday； we have heard enough fearsome stories to take what you say seriously； yes？ Very seriously 〃 He gestured for the nearest acolyte to help him up。 〃Thank you for sharing our meal； Isbeorn；〃 he said 〃God keep you I hope we can speak more in the mon room tonight。 How long do you stay？〃
〃I'm not sure yet；〃 Isgrimnur replied。 〃My thanks to you； too。〃
The old man and his two panions disappeared into the crush of retreating monks； leaving Isgrimnur to sort out his thoughts。 After a moment he gave up and rose from the table。
I can't even hear myself think in here。 He shook his head grimly； pushing toward the doorway。 His large size helped him make rapid progress and he reached the main hallway swiftly。 Now I've gone and spouted my own piece； but I'm not a whit closer to finding poor Miriamele； he thought sourly。 And how can I find out her whereabouts； anyway？ Just ask someone if Elias' missing daughter is anywhere in the place？ Oh； and she's traveling as a boy； besides。 That's even better。 Perhaps I'll just ask around； find out if any young monks have shown up at the Sancellan Aedonitis lately。
He gave a bitter snort as he watched the river of habited forms swirl past。
Elysia； Mother of God； I wish Eolair was with me。 That damned Hernystirman loves this kind of nonsense。 He'd track her down quick enough； with his smooth ways。 What am I doing here？
The Duke of Elvritshalla rubbed his fingers along his unnaturally smooth jaw。 Then； startling even himself； he began to laugh at his own hopeless foolishness。
Passing priests eddied nervously around the big…bellied northern monk； who was evidently caught up in some kind of religious fit Isgrimnur roared and bellowed with laughter until the tears coursed down his chafed pink cheeks。
Thunderstorm weather lay on the swamp like a blanket； damp and oppressively hot。 Tiamak could feel the storm's yearning hunger to exist； its prickly breath made the hair stand up on his arms。 What he would not give for the storm to break and a little cool rain to fall！ The thought of raindrops splashing on his face and bending the leaves of the mangroves seemed like a dream of the most benevolent magic。
Tiamak sighed as he lifted his pole from the water and laid it across the thwarts of his flatboat。 He stretched； trying without success to unkink the muscles of his back。 He had been poling for three days and had suffered two near…sleepless nights filled with worry about what he should do。 If he went to Kwanitupul and stayed there； would he be betraying his tnbesmen？ Could they ever understand a debt he owed to drylanders…or owed to a few drylanders； anyway？
Of course they wouldn't understand。 Tiamak frowned and reached for his waterskin； sloshing a generous mouthful around before swallowing it。 He had always been thought of as strange。 If he did not go to Nabban to plead his people's case with Duke Benigaris； he would simply be a strange traitor。 That would be the end of it as far as the elders of Village Grove were concerned。
He took his kerchief from his head and dipped it over the side of the boat into the water； then arranged it atop his hair once more。 Blessedly cool water dribbled down his face and neck。 The bright； long…tailed birds perched in the branches overhead stopped screeching for a moment as a dim rumble rolled across the swamp。 Tiamak felt his heart beat faster。
He Who Always Steps on Sand； let the storm e soon！
His boat had begun to slow when he had stopped poling。 Now the stern began to swing gradually out to the middle of the watercourse； turning him sideways so that he faced the bank…or rather； what would have been the bank if this were a dryland river。 Here in the Wran it was only a tangle of clustered mangroves whose roots held in just enough sand for the colony of trees to grow and prosper。 Tiamak made a resigned noise and pushed his pole back into the water once more； straightening the boat and prodding it forward through a thick clump of lilies which clutched at his passing hull like the fingers of drowning swimmers。 It was several more days to Kwanitupul； and that was if the storm he was praying for did not bring heavy winds in its train； winds which might uproot trees and make this part of the Wran an unpassable snarl of roots and trunks and broken branches。
He Who Always Steps on Sand； he amended his prayer； let a cooling but gentle storm e soon！
His heart felt unutterably heavy。 How could he choose between two such awful possibilities？ He could go as far as Kwanitupul before choosing whether to stay there in accordance with Morgenes' wishes or to go on to Nabban as Older Mogahib and the rest had ordered。 He tried to soothe himself with that idea； but wondered if such thinking was not in fact just like allowing a wound to fester； when instead he should grit his teeth and clean it out so the healing could start？
Tiamak thought of his mother； who had spent most of her life on her knees； tending the cookfire； grinding grain in the pestle； working every day from the darkness before dawn until it was time to crawl into the hammock at night。 He had little respect for th