“Who are you?” he said, very conversationally.
“I am a builder,” Siveni said. “And the daughter of a builder. If it pleases me to do a masterwork while living in a slum, that’s my business. Think, if you like, that I’m making this city safe for my family to live in in future years.
Have you had anything to complain of about my work so far?”
“Nothing,” said Molin. He sounded as if he would rather have had complaints.
“And have you not been checking the actual building against the plans each day and each night? And have you or your spies found one stone out of place, or anything not just as it should be?”
Molin Torchholder stared at her.
“Then let me do my work and take my wage in peace.” She looked at him merrily.
“Which reminds me,” she said; “there are stones out there waiting for our attention at the laying. Come on.” And Siveni drank off the cup and set it down appreciatively.
“It does add something to the flavor,” she said, and got up. “Come, sir.”
She went out into the bright hot day, Molin following. Alarm was still singing in his mind; and now in hers, too.
He suspects something… even though there’s nothing to suspect. He’ll do Harran and Mriga some harm if he must, to find out the truth. Wretched mortal! Why can’t he leave off meddling?
I must think of something to do.
I never had these problems when I was single!
“Yai, Gray-Eyes! You ready?”
“Coming, Kivan,” she called, and headed down along the stone course, feeling the
Torchholder’s eyes in her back, like spears without lightning.