He was not sure he had ever told her about the fever. Instinct waked instantly and warned him. He was on his guard, in a heartbeat retracing everything he had said, and asked himself again whether the Ila would be fool enough to threaten his life or that of someone near him.

“The fever from the wound?” he asked. “Gone. I’m quite well.”

The Ila regarded him curiously and in silence for a moment. She had protected her white, white skin, even beneath the clouded sky. It was as white as ever. If anyone in the camp washed with water instead of sand, it would be the Ila. The smell of the Beykaskh went about her still, perfume, or incense. Even in the oily, sun-warmed musk of the air under the tent, he smelled it, like a taint of holiness.

“And the wound itself?”

He pushed up his sleeve. The wound was entirely gone, leaving no scar. He had no idea what she thought, having seen that, but she seemed not entirely pleased with the sight. She lifted her hand.

“You may go,” she said, having asked nothing about their destination, their schedule, or their pace.

He gathered himself up and left, with his au’it, who never said a word.

And having escaped the tent and the interview, and saying no word to Memnanan, he gathered up Hati and Norit.

Tofi came over. Beyond them, the Haga were starting their beasts to their feet, ready to move, in the breakup of that last conference.

“I think you can pack the tent now,” Marak said. “Speak to the captain.”

“What did she ask?” Norit asked him, when Tofi went off to do that.

“I asked her about the priests, and she asked me about Memnanan’s wife.”

“Nothing else?”

“The voices, the wound, the fever.”

Norit said nothing, but frowned at the last.

“Why?” he asked her, as they three stood in the dissolution of their camp, the au’it at some distance, writing.

Norit was a moment answering. He had all but given up on her answering at all, no infrequent thing that Norit remained completely absorbed in her musings. But she said, faintly, “The makers.”

“What about the makers?”

“That was her question to you,” Norit said. “About the wound.”

He and Hati looked at her in dismay, silent. It was clearly not Norit speaking to them. It was not Norit who had asked that question, as he had the strong suspicion it had not been Norit for days. “She wished to know about the makers, that was the intent of her question. Whether the strange makers still work in your blood. That’s why she asked you about the fever.”

“She asked whether I’m cured of the madness.”

“Exactly that?”

“Whether I still hear the voices,” he amended it.

“Yes.”

“Did she think not?” he asked. “As if, when we reached Oburan, the madness would just let us go?”