“She says she saw them pass by here a few hours ago, heading in our direction, and then saw a few of them returning in haste more recently.”

I am asked to ask how many there were. I ask, she answers, I tell Makemin—

“Far fewer than there had been. Three dozen or so, she thinks. She wants to know if we fought with them. Shall I tell her?”

“Yes.”

I report this, and she blinks slowly.

I am asked to ask if she saw where they went and if so where they went. We proceed.

“They left the path not far ahead and went in among the hills. She thinks they avoid the village influence.”

...

“The village is not ten minutes walk from here. One practically can’t live any closer than this.”

...

“They say they are the only people remaining here. Everyone else died, or left. Most went on to Verauar.”

...

“Are there supplies in town? No we are not afraid of the influence we have these—” he shows the kerchief, causing her to cock one eyebrow slightly.

“She says there are probably some stores left in town. The wells are bad, but there are cisterns for catching rainwater. That should be all right.”

...

“She says she has seen no other soldiers here.”

...

“She did not see the effect of the influence.”

...

“The old men did not see the effect of the influence. No one who went to see came back to tell.”

“What was mined here?” Makemin asks through me.

The woman smiles loosely and holds up an arm bangled with bright gold, thick bracelets and engraved rings fretting her fingers and thumb.

Makemin looks up as magenta grains appear in the fog. I see his thinking—sunset coming on, we’re safest camping in town. I am instructed to thank the woman for her information and to offer her some reward. She and the two men behind her are like a kind of trick picture, appearing to move but not moving at all.

“She wants a gun.”

Makemin calls to Nikhinoch, who goes and comes with a rifle. Makemin takes it, gives it to me, I give it to her. Her fingers brush mine lightly as she takes it, her eyes invariably on the gun. As we return to the column with our gratitude still hanging in the air her gaze remains with us like mist resting on the water.

“Do you believe her?” I am asked.

“Of course I do. They always use a particular inflection when they lie.”

“I can’t say I see the use of that.”

“Oh,” I sigh, “it’s conventional. You use it when you want to seem to be lying, and so then you can tell the truth.”