heart. Scared he was. He had not had a friend, but Mradhon Vis. Distrust gnawed
at him, not bitter, but only the habit of weighing his value – to anyone. He had
learned that he was for using and when he stopped being useful he could not see
what there was in him that anyone would want. Moria needed him; no woman ever
had, not really. This man did, sometimes; for a while; but a shout from him – a
harsh word – made him flinch, and reminded him what he was even when he had a
paper that said otherwise. Challenged, he might fight from fear. Nothing else.
And never Mradhon Vis.
‘I talk to her like that,’ Mradhon said, not whispering, ‘when it does her good.
Brooding over that brother others -‘
‘Shut up,’ Moria said from behind them.
‘Mor-am’s dead,’ Mradhon said. ‘Or good as dead. Forget your brother, hear? It’s
your good I’m thinking of.’
‘My good.’ Came a soft, hateful laugh. ‘So I can steal again, that’s the thing.
Because Jubal knows me, not you.’ A chair scraped. Haught looked round as two
slim-booted feet came beside them, as Moria squatted down and put a hand on
Mradhon’s arm. ‘You hate me. Hate me, don’t you? Hate women. Who did that, Vis?
You born that way?’
‘Don’t,’ Haught said, to both of them. He gripped Mradhon’s arm, which had gone
to iron. ‘Moria, let him be.’
‘No,’ Mradhon said. And for some reason Moria drew back her hand and had a
sobered look. .
‘Go to bed,’ said Haught. ‘Now.’ He-sensed the violence beside him, sensed it
worse than other times. He could calm this violence, draw it to himself, if