The manikin on Khamwas’s shoulder must have been able to sense the situation, because he said, “There is no one who does not die.” Tjainufi’s voice was as high as a bird’s; but, also like a bird’s, it had considerable volume behind it.
The Napatan “scholar” reached toward his shoulder with his free hand, a gesture mingled of affection and warning. “Tjainufi,” he mut- tered, “not now – . .”
Samlor doubted that Khamwas had any more control over the mani- kin than a camel driver did over a pet mouse which lived in a fold of his cloak. Or, for that matter, than Samlor himself had over his niece, who was bright enough to understand any instructions he gave her-but whose response was as likely to be willful as that of any other seven-year- old.
Now, for instance, a ball of phosphorescence bloomed in the cup of the child’s hand, lighting her way past the dying man despite the caravan master’s warning that illumination-magical or otherwise-would be more risk to them than benefit, at least until they got out of the Maze.
Star put a foot down daintily, just short of the victim’s outflung arm, then skipped by in a motion that by its incongruity made the scene all the more horrible. The ball of light she had formed drifted behind her for a moment. Its core shrank and brightened-from will-o’-the-wisp to firefly intensity-while the whirling periphery formed tendrils like the whorl of silver-white hair on Star’s head.
The child turned back, saw the set expression on Samlor’s face, and jerked away as if he had slapped her physically. The spin of light blanked as if it had never been.