By Ann Maxwell
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Tokor accepted the bowl, then held it out to Syza questioningly. “I’ve not spent the night on the back of a stumbling taman,” she said. “Take the ssan. ” Tokor’s fingers brushed his forehead before he drank the ssan with evident relish. “He always did like it bitter,” said Kaffi, filling her bowl and giving it to Syza. ” “Insulted! Sweet Lith—the ssan alone would have driven me from my home. ” Syza sipped and shuddered delicately. “It’s hot, though,” she conceded, “and wet. ” Lhar held his hand out to her; a reed heart lay across his palm.
Dry to drier. Hungry to hungrier. Few to fewer. “We have only your word that you crossed the n’Lith. Most g’mirans won’t want to believe that. ” “I see. ” Kaffi’s laugh was almost a bark. “We’ll go at a slower pace from here on. I’m not a fool. ” Lhar kneaded Kaffi’s shoulder briskly until the knot loosened. ” he said as he worked. “Call it twisted hope. If you bring change with you, and that change is like all other changes we’ve known, so be it. I’d rather die quickly in a rockfall than slowly choke on dust.
I’m an integrator, Syza. I—” The sudden stiffness of her body reminded Lhar that she knew exactly what an integrator was, that she had accepted this assignment rather than be integrated. He felt her fear probe coldly at the edges of her control. Then her eyelashes lifted and he could see her eyes, flat and measuring. He felt an involuntary shiver at the death that watched him. “Listen to me,” he said urgently. ” “Because if you didn’t agree one of us would die. ” His laugh was cold, heedless. “One of Xantha’s better jokes, Syza.
A Dead God Dancing by Ann Maxwell