There wasn’t time to worry about it. The caravan master gripped the child beneath the shoulders with his left arm and lifted her into the room. Star yelped as her head brushed the transom, but she should’ve had sense enough to duck.
“My staff. Master Samlor,” said Khamwas.
The Cirdonian leaned forward and caught the vague motion that proved to be the end of an ordinary wooden staff when his fingers en- closed it. Behind him, the room lighted vaguely with pastel blue.
Star shouldn’t have done it without asking; but they needed light, and a child wasn’t a responsible adult. Samlor slid the staff behind him with his left hand while supporting the tapestry with his right hand and his full weight to pin the end to the floor.
The Napatan scholar mounted gracefully and used Samlor’s arm like the bar of a trapeze to swing himself over the lintel. Only then did the caravan master turn to see where they were and what his niece was doing.
Star had set swimming through the air a trio of miniature octopuses made of light. A blue one drifted beneath the ceiling frescoed with scenes of anthropomorphic deities; a yellow one prowled beneath the legs of a writing table sumptuous with mother-of-pearl inlays.
The third miniature octopus was of an indigo so pale that it barely showed up against the carven door against which it bobbed feebly.
“Where’s . . .” Samlor said as he looked narrowly at Khamwas. “You know, your little friend?”
Tjainufi reappeared on the Napatan’s right shoulder. The manikin moved with the silent suddenness of an image in an angled mirror, now here and now not, as the tilt changes. “The warp does not stray far from the woof,” he said in cheerful satisfaction,