“Safety!” Marak shouted out in the inspiration of his heart. “Safety! That’s become more scarce than water on the Lakht! The refuge you came here to find, all of you, water, food, and shelter enough for every household! I, Marak Trin, I’ve come in from across the Lakht with a caravan and we’re going out again, to bring you all to a place where one refuge for you exists, off the edge of the plateau, beyond the village of Pori! I’ve seen it! I’ve seen a river green-sided with palms. I’ve seen beshti wandering free of harness. I’ve seen craftsmen in their tents, working for the pride of their craft! I’ve seen the heart of the tower that provides this place and keeps the star-fall away from its land! I’ve been inside it, and I know it exists!”

Cries rose up to him, one and another just out of earshot trying to position himself to hear and the attempt crushing those nearest.

“I say safety,” Marak repeated for those who were in earshot of a shout. “I say a caravan leaving the holy city, going to an oasis where you and your children will live!”

That created its own babble, repeated mouth to ear among the crowd, and now, caught in the press of bodies forward, riders controlled irritated, snappish beasts.

“The tribes will move first,” Marak shouted, while the fire boiled and bubbled within his vision, while the stink of heated rock assaulted his imagination. “The Keran and the Haga, of the deep Lakht, will go first. Then the Ila’s caravan. Then tribes beyond that. And the villages! Let every tribe, let every village, let every man forgive their feuds! What is the law of the Lakht? What is the god’s law? That when the wind rises, any man may come into a tent, regardless of feuds, to the number the tent will bear! No just man can deny shelter!”

Grim veiled men nodded. It was the law. And now for the first time there was a hush over the crowd. Those who could possibly hear leaned close.