Chapter thirteen
Shula the Balm“So much for his share of my agio!”
Jespar the Scundle crawled out from under a table and stood up. He chewed on a chicken bone. He was not the least whit abashed that he had not charged in with us and struck a blow. I, for one, could hardly fault him for that.
Shula the Balm looked up. Difficult, of course, to translate the facial expressions of one race into a meaning to another — did that wrinkling of the brow indicate anger, fear, contempt, amusement?
She said, “Tump. Hold this.”
Jespar jumped.
He had been a free tump, a mining man, and then he had been slave. His instincts had been sufficiently overlaid by discipline to make him instantly reach forward and do as he was bid.
The woman barely acknowledged him.
The “this” he was requested to hold wa
