The gelid remains of breakfast remained on the sideboard, ignored by the endemic
vermin. It would taste worse than it looked, though Cythen was long past the
luxury of tasting the food she ate: one ate what was available or one starved.
She filled her bowl and sat alone by the hearth.
Bekin’s death was still unexplained and unavenged and that weighed more heavily
upon her than the greasy porridge. For more years than she cared to remember,
her only pride had been that she had somehow managed to care for Bekin. Now that
was gone and she stood emotionally naked to her guilts and unbidden memories. If
the Harka Bey had not appeared, she might still have blamed them but, despite
their barbaric coldness, or perhaps because of it, she believed what they had
said. The warmth of tears rose within her as her brooding was broken by the
sound of a chair scraping along the floor in the watchroom above her. Rather
than succumb to the waiting tears, she went to confront Walegrin.
The straw-blond man didn’t notice as she opened the door. He was absorbed in his
square of parchment and the cramped rows of figures he had made upon it. With
one hand on the door, Cythen hesitated. She didn’t like Walegrin; no one really
did, except maybe Thrusher – and he was almost as strange. The garrison’s
officer repelled compassion and friendship alike and hid his emotions so
thoroughly that none could find them. Still, Walegrin managed to provide
leadership and direction when it was needed – and he reminded Cythen of no one
else in her troubled past.