The MASK and the SORCERESS

She noticed a movement among the distant palm trunks on the ridge. The guards stirred and looked at it. Theatana said nothing to them, for they knew nothing of her language and she loathed speaking theirs, though she'd learned a good deal of it during her exile here. They were dark-skinned Mixtun islanders, in leather and iron armor and carrying short stabbing swords at their belts. Each wore a thick braid of hair that snaked from beneath his helmet and hung swaying at his back. The one in charge of her escort -- she had no idea of his name, for all the guards except the commander were changed every monthgrunted, and gestured at her to go toward the ridge and the man now hurrying toward them. Theatana stared hard at the Mixtun, and he made a furtive warding sign with his least finger and his thumb.

But his gesture against her supposed evil meant nothing; the guards would still force her compliance if she did not go willingly. Accepting necessity, she turned and began to walk at a languid pace toward the still-distant figure. By the man's helmet crest and smudge of black beard she could tell that it was Tabar, the Mixtun guard commandant.

Suddenly her pulse quickened as she realized the oddity of his behavior. Why was he wearing a helmet? Normally he went bareheaded because of the heat, as did the guards. More peculiar still, why was he coming for her himself, instead of sending one of his men? He was a rigorous jailer, and scrupulously kept his distance from his captive. He spoke to her only when it was essential for him to do so. This suited Theatana perfectly; he was a stupid, narrow man.

Perhaps, she thought suddenly, it was her death warrant and her death that he brought. Would he hasten his steps like this, for such a purpose?

No, that's not it. He'd cut my head off from behind, without warning, so I'd have no chance to curse him. And after this long, it's not likely there's been such an order.