“He, uh, he’s a one-man cat,” Hanse explained. “Notable, if you knock anything over or get into anything it will go hard with you!”
“Mraow.”
Hanse was not happy to discover that Teretaff already had a visitor. The aged S’danzo “chief” with the implacable eyes and straight mouth and the usual multicolored, modestly cut garb barely acknowledged Hanse’s presence. Hanse was determinedly respectful. The Termagant was not visiting Teretaff, he realized; she was interested in the almost- sixteen-year-old. Now both stared at Hanse, Jileel from huge round eyes the color of walnut wood flanked by a great deal of hair the color of a roan horse. Her blouse was striped yellow and green and was unaccount- ably stuffed; under a multiprint apron, her skirts showed six or nine other colors and hues.
“You left here with my daughter,” Teretaff said, but it was a question rather than an accusation.
“Precipitately,” the Termagant said, straight-mouthed and flat-eyed.
Suddenly Hanse has to tell them, no matter the consequences: “Yes. When I found Moonflower I went wild. I started running, ran into a fish -a, un, Beysib, and killed it. Her. I think it was the one who ki- who . . .”
“Oh, I do hope it was!” the almost-sixteen-year-old said ferociously, in a rather throaty voice.
“Jileel!” the Termagant snapped, inadvertently helping Hanse by pro- viding the girl’s name.
Teretaff glanced at her, and back to Hanse. “I hope so too, Hanse. She did like you, my wife.”
Hanse was surprised to hear himself say, “I loved her, Teretaff.”