“Neither, my lady, for the c.r. was not being broadcast. I had the dial set to receive messages, not send. It is very efficient, you see.”

At this point, two women, dressed in the heavy wherhide garb of smithcrafters, entered the room, laden with trays of steaming food. One was evidently solely for the Smith’s consumption, for the woman jerked her head at him as she placed the heavy platter on a rest evidently designed to receive it and not disturb work in the sand tray beneath. She bobbed to Lessa as she crossed in front of her, gesturing peremptorily to her companion to wait as she cleared space on the table. She did this by sweeping things out of her way with complete disregard for what might be disarranged or broken. She gave the bared surface a cursory swipe with a towel, signaled the other to put the tray down, then the two of them swept out before Lessa, stunned by such perfunctory service, could utter a sound.

“I see you’ve got your women trained, Fandarel,” F’lar said mildly, catching and holding Lessa’s indignant eyes. “No talking, no fluttering, no importunate demands for attention.”

Terry chuckled as he freed one chair of its pile of abandoned clothing and gestured Lessa to sit. F’lar righted one overturned stool that would serve him while Terry hooked a foot round a second that had got kicked under the long table, seating himself with a fluid movement that proved he had long familiarity with such makeshift repasts.

Now that he had food before him, the Smith was eating with single-minded intensity.

“Then it is the wire-laying process that holds you up,” F’lar said, accepting the klah Lessa poured for him and Terry. “How long did it take you to extend it from here to Crom Hold, for instance?”

“We did not stick to the work,” Terry replied for his Craftmaster, whose mouth was too full for speech. “The posts were set up first by apprentices from both halls and those holders willing to take a few hours from their own tasks. It was difficult to find the proper wire, and it takes time to extrude perfect lengths.”

“Did you speak to Lord Larad? Wouldn’t he volunteer men?”

Terry made a face. “Lord Holder Larad is more interested in how many flame throwers we can make him, or how many crops he can plant for food.”

Lessa had taken a sip of the klah and barely managed to swallow the acid stuff. The bread was lumpy and half-baked, the sausage within composed of huge, inedible chunks, yet both Terry and Fandarel ate with great appetite. Indifferent service was one matter, but decent food quite another.

“If this is the food he barters you for flame throwers, I’d refuse,” she exclaimed. “Why, even the fruit is rotten.”

“Lessa!”