“Because we should care,” he said. “Because when they brought us from the villages we became beasts. I don’t wish to be a beast again. And I won’t be a beast. Damn the visions! I may not go to the tower, and damn them all. It’s my choice! It’s become my choice, and I may not choose what they want me to choose!”

Hati thought about that. And in his mind, at least, the visions had become quiet.

Sanity seemed to have settled over them all for the while.

“It’s our choice,” Hati echoed him. “I can make it. I decide.”

Norit said, “There’s no use dying before we know what it is we’re looking for, is there?”

“No,” he said. “There is not.” He gathered them both against him, Hati against his side, Norit against his knees. They were beyond passion, since Pori. The intervening days they had had no strength to spare. Things had assumed a haste that had no reason, and now he reminded himself he had company, and had lives in his hand, and could not make Kassan’s choices.

Within the hour, all the same, they saddled up the beasts again and rode on, but sensibly so, to use the cool of the night while they had it and to stop again close to their ordinary schedule. They rode on into the day and by then, though the chipped tooth stayed chipped, the orchardman’s lip showed healed. More, the orchardman and the potter were quarreling again and calling one another fools, and the whole company seemed in better humor.

The sun went to noon, and they pitched the tents precisely as they needed to, on a sandy flat. They were still on the storm track: the recent debris of oasis fiber-palms where no trees grew showed how very far the winds had carried debris. It had likely come from the palms at Pori. Usually the sun heated their tea; they lit the fiber for fuel, and it brewed up a fine spiced porridge with the added flavor of smoke.

In the afternoon, however, and before they could break camp and have the tents safely folded, the wind began to blow. The breeze was a relief from the heat, but it gusted and battered at them and made more work with the tents.

The wind grew worse with the evening. Dry and hot, it wearied the bones, blew up the dust, and made the deep-irons a serious consideration by the next noonday, if they were to pitch the tents.

“It’s only a small blow,” Marak said, when Tofi hesitated, and feared they might misjudge the weather. The urge to move was so strong his skin itched. “Wrap up in mats. We can do without the tents.”

“No, omi. If we misjudge, it’s the death of us. We have to pitch the tents.”