Except for the pond, the big room was antiseptically bare. The walls between top and bottom moldings were painted in vertical pastel waves reminiscent of a kelp forest, and the floor was a geometric pattern in varicolored marble.
“Well, which way now?” the caravan master demanded brusquely, his eyes on the doorway to the rear half of the house. Star was shivering despite wrapping her cloak tighter with both hands, and Samlor didn’t like the feel of the room a bit either.
“Down still,” said Khamwas in puzzlement. He rapped the ferule of his staff on the floor, a sharp sound that contained no information useful -at least-to the caravan master. Perhaps it just seemed like the right thing to do.
“There’ll be a cistern below,” said Samlor, gesturing with a dripping boot toe toward the pond. “The access hatch’d be in the kitchen, most likely. Not in this room.”
He started for a door, ill at ease and angry at himself for that feeling of undirected fear. Part of his mind yammered that the Napatan was a fool who again mistook a direction for a pathway . . . and Samlor had to avoid that, avoid picking excuses to snarl at those closest to him in order to conceal fears he was embarrassed to admit.
Star poked a hand between the edges other cloak. She did not look up; but when her finger cocked, a bright spark swam rapidly from it and began coasting the lower wall moldings.
“D-dearest,” said the caravan master, glancing at the withdrawn, mis- erable-looking face of his niece, then back to the light source. Star said nothing.