“Merchants will trade, and beggars will beg, and laborers will seek work wherever they can find it.” The nai’s richly spiced aroma made Marit’s mouth water; it was all she could do not to bolt down the food right there.

“In the old days that was certainly true, but not anymore. We can’t be so easy about things in these days.” Morning mist rose off the river and curled in backwater reeds. A last gust of night rain spattered on the waters, and stilled. On the grounds of the temple, an apprentice trundled a wheelbarrow full of night soil to the temple gardens, while a pair of children carried an empty basket to the henhouse. A trio of elders even older than the gatekeeper paced through the chant of healing from the Tale of Patience, their morning exercise. From the round sanctuary rose the sonorous chanting of male voices. “I don’t mind telling you, for your own good, really, that we’ve recalled all our envoys who’ve been walking the roads from here to Haldia and Toskala. Sund and Farhal and Sardia aren’t truly safe, although some still make the journey.”

“You must have envoys carrying messages to the Ostiary in Nessumara, to the other temples of Ilu. Not to mention your work as envoys.”

The old envoy was spry, comfortably plump, and nobody’s fool. “Think you so? Why are you headed that way? If you don’t mind my saying so, your clothes and walking staff mark you as a beggar or a laborer down on her luck—and the gods know we’ve seen enough of them in these days—but your manner doesn’t fit. The cloak’s nice. Is that silk? Good quality.”

Her interest was genuine. She was envious, in an amused way. She didn’t trust Marit, not in these days with any kind of traveler out on the roads and every sort of awful rumor blown on the winds. The region of Sohayil remained a haven of relative calm probably only because of the ancient magic bound into the bones of the surrounding hills as a fence against trouble. But on the other hand, a lone traveler wasn’t likely to cause much trouble unless she was a spy scouting for—

She glanced away, as if troubled, and the contact broke.

“For what?” asked Marit.

“Eh!” The envoy laughed awkwardly as she looked back at Marit. “For what? If I could find silk that good in quality, I’d get a length of blue and make a wedding wrap for my granddaughter. But not white, like that. White is—White’s not a color for weddings.” White is death’s color, but any decent person is too well mannered to mention that to someone who clearly has nothing else to wear against the rain.

“My thanks, Your Holiness. My thanks for your hospitality.”

“Blessed is Ilu, who walks with travelers.” Her smile remained friendly, but it was pitying as well: Especially poor kinless women like this one, alone in the world. No one should have to be so alone.