were unusually vulnerable to all the powers of the physical world as well as
those of the political one. No wonder the Beysib counterparts of these men had
turned to a god their overlords would not recognize; a personification, perhaps,
of mystery and of the typhoons that could sweep the ocean clear of small boats
and simple sailors.
Hort slipped into the cantina. He was dressed a little on the gaudy side. Still,
he wore his clothes with the self-assurance of a young man instead of a boy’s
nervous gibing at the world. He raised a finger. The bartender chalked the slate
above him and began drawing a mug of ale for the newcomer.
‘I’m not sure you want to be seen with me,’ Hort muttered to Samlor as he took
his ale. ‘The fellows they just carried off -‘ he nodded, as he slurped the
brew, towards the trawler bobbing high on its lines with the mast still swinging
above it from the sheer legs. ‘Kummanni, Anbarbi, Arnuwanda. I talked to them
just last night. About what you needed to know.’
‘That’s why they were arrested?’ the caravan-master asked. He tried to keep his
voice as calm as if he were asking which tailor had sewn the younger man’s
jerkin.
‘I would to god I knew,’ Hort said with feeling. ‘It could be anything.
Tudhaliya is – Minister of Security, I suppose. But he likes to stay close to
things. To keep his hand in.’
‘And his swords,’ Samlor agreed softly. His eyes traced the path the horsemen
had taken as they rode off, towards the palace and the dungeons beneath it.
‘Would enough money to let you travel be a help?’