“Are we going to sup at the Golden Oasis, Father?”
“For all we know,” Shafralain said, this time with a slight turning of his head,
“the Golden Oasis has been destroyed, or sadly damaged.”
“I’d be glad to ride straight there and have a look,” Esaria said. “I’d be perfectly safe, too; Strick would ride with me, wouldn’t you, Strick?”
“That,” her father said, “will not be possible.”
They rode in silence, approaching the wall of Sanctuary. Abruptly the nobleman’s noble wife turned partway around and spoke in a determinedly pleasant voice.
“Well, Strick of Firaqa, will you please escort me to the Golden Oasis? Yes,
Esaria, you may come along. Aral,” she said to her husband in a different voice,
“we will be fine and will join you later at home.”
The Noble Shafralain gave his wife a long, slow stare.
“My lady,” Strick said softly, “I regret that I already have other plans.”
“Oh-h!” Esaria said, in clear exasperation. Obviously Strick had chosen diplomacy and deference to her father over touching off family problems.
For the first time, Shafralain turned to give the foreigner a fleeting glance.
It was not an unpleasant look.
“Firaqa,” he said, turning back. “Firaqa… oh. That where the pearls come from?”
“Aye.”
“Freshwater pearls,” Expimilia exclaimed. “Of course! Firaqan Souls of the
Oyster!” Abruptly she half-turned to look at the quiet man. “You didn’t come here to sell any of those beauties, did you?”
Shafralain snorted. Strick made a chuckling noise. “Sorry, my lady.”
They entered the city and within a few hundred feet were accosted by two young men. Each wore a cloth band of the same color around his upper arm and bore a crossbow in addition to sheathed sword.