“Khamwas,” the Cirdonian added as he looked around them, “if you can locate what we’re after, then get to it. I really don’t want t’ spend any
longer here than I need to.”
“Look, uncle,” Star squealed as she pranced over to the writing desk.
“Mommy’s box!”
Samlor’s speed and reflexes were in proper form after his exertions, but his judgment was off. He attempted to spring for the desk before Star got there, and his boots skidded out from under him on the wet marble. Because he’d swept the long dagger from his belt as part of the same unthinking maneuver, he had only his left palm to break his fall. The shock made the back of his hand tingle and the palm bum.
Khamwas had retrieved his staff. He stopped muttering to it when the Cirdonian slapped the floor hard enough to make the loose bars roll and jingle among themselves. “Are you . . . ?” he began, offering a hand to the sprawling bigger man.
“See, Uncle Samlor?” said the child, returning to the caravan master with an ivory box in her hands. “It’s got mommy’s mark on it.”
“No, go on with your business,” said Samlor calmly to the Napatan. He felt the prickly warmth of embarrassment painting his skin, but he wouldn’t have survived this long if he lashed out in anger every time he’d made a public fool of himself. “Find the stele you’re after, and then we’ll see what Star’s got here.”
He took the box from the child as quickly as he could without letting it slip from his numbed fingers. Even if it were just what it seemed-a casket of Samlane’s big enough to hold a pair of armlets-it could be extremely dangerous.