“How does he live? What trade is open to him?” Melilot demanded.
Jarveena shrugged. “I think when all else fails he has to rob. But there are tasks even a wanderer may undertake. He goes a lot to sea; sometimes he enlists to guard a caravan; he has hinted at having been a courier, and carried confidential mail. Naturally, though, he can’t serve long on any given route.”
“Naturally,” Melilot said in a dry tone, and had to hide another yawn. “Well, my dear Jarveena, if it’s any consolation, you have indeed elicited my sympathy. Your vivid picture of his unendurable existence must move the stoniest of hearts-which mine, as you’re aware, is not. Let us hope for both your sakes that Enas Yorl relieves the curse tomorrow. Go now and tell your friend I wish he may sleep soundly in my guest room, since it may only be this once. And leave me your report and your accounts, so I may peruse them while you’re with the wizard.”
“You’ll find them all in order.”
“Are they not always so?”
“Of course. How otherwise could I have kept on your right side so long?”
Rising with a chuckle, she headed for the door. Passing his chair, she bent to plant a kiss on his shaven pate.
“Thank you for allowing Klikitagh to stay. It can’t be often that he enjoys such luxury.”
Said Melilot: “I didn’t notice him enjoying it . . .”
And his little joke sent him contentedly to bed.
Waking, but with eyes still closed, Jarveena abruptly grew aware of another presence near at hand, apart from Klikitagh. She tensed, sliding her fingers beneath her pillow in search of the knife that never left her reach.