The caravan master blinked, touched his tunic over the silver medal- lion of the goddess Heqt on his breast, and only then slid the weapon back from its temporary resting place in his belt. The twisting phospho- rescence gave the markings a false hint of motion; but they were only swirls of metal, not the script he thought he had again seen.
Khamwas watched with controlled apprehension. Deciding that it was better to go on with his proposal than to wonder why Samlor was staring at the knife whose guard still bore dark stains, the Napatan said. “Master Samlor, you understand this city as I do not. And you’re clearly able to deal with, ah, with violence, should any be offered. Could I prevail on you to accompany me to the house of Setios? I’ll pay you well.”
“Do not walk the road without a stick in your hand,” Tjainufi said approvingly.
“We need to find Setios, Uncle Samlor,” said the child in a voice rising toward shrill. She released Khamwas and instead tugged insistently on the elbow of her uncle’s right sleeve. “Please can we? He’s nice.”
Cold steel cannot flow, twist, parse out words, thought the caravan master. The nick in the edge was bright and real: this was no thing of enchantment, only a dagger with an awkward hilt and a very good blade.
Star pulled at Samlor’s arm with most of her weight. He did not look down at her, nor did his hand drop. That arm had dragged a donkey back up to the trail from which it had stumbled into a gulley a hundred feet deep.
“Please,” said the child.