These men were mostly Dedicated. Weaves spun in the air, much more skillful and powerful than those the Two Rivers lads had used. These were streamlined, like hissing vipers or striking arrows. Rocks exploded, and bursts of dirt sprayed into the air. The blasting was done in an unpredictable pattern to confuse and disorient foes. Androl could imagine a group of cavalry thundering down that slope, only to be surprised by exploding Earth. A single Dedicated could wipe out dozens of riders in moments.

Androl noted with dissatisfaction that the working men stood in two groups. The Tower was beginning to split and divide, those loyal to Logain shunned and ostracized. On the right, Canler, Emarin and Nalaam worked with focus and dedication, joined by Jonneth Dowtry—the most skilled soldier among the Two Rivers lads. On the left, a group of Taim’s cronies were laughing among themselves. Their weaves were more wild, but also much more destructive. Coteren lounged at the back, leaning against a leafy hardgum tree and overseeing the work.

The workers took a break and called for a village boy to bring water. Androl walked up, and Arlen Nalaam saw him first, waving with a broad smile. The Domani man wore a thin mustache. He was just shy of his thirtieth year, though he sometimes acted much younger. Androl was still smarting from the time Nalaam had put tree sap in his boots.

“Androl!” Nalaam called. “Come tell these uncultured louts what a Retashen Dazer is!”

“A Retashen Dazer?” Androl said. “It’s a drink. Mix of mead and ewe’s milk. Foul stuff.”

Nalaam looked at the others proudly. He had no pins on his coat. He was only a soldier, but he should have been advanced by now.

“You bragging about your travels again, Nalaam?” Androl asked, unlacing the leather armguard.

“We Domani get around,” Nalaam said. “You know, the kind of work my father does, spying for the Crown….”

“Last week you said your father was a merchant,” Canler said. The sturdy man was the oldest of the group, his hair graying, his square face worn from many years in the sun.

“He is,” Nalaam said. “That’s his front for being a spy!”

“Aren’t women the merchants in Arad Doman?” Jonneth asked, rubbing his chin. He was a large, quiet man with a round face. His entire family—his siblings, his parents, and his grandfather Buel—had relocated to the village rather than letting him come alone.

“Well, they’re the best,” Nalaam said, “and my mother is no exception. We men know a thing or two, though. Besides, since my mother was busy infiltrating the Tuatha’an, my father had to take over the business.”

“Oh, now that’s just ridiculous,” Canler said with a scowl. “Who would ever want to infiltrate a bunch of Tinkers?”

“To learn their secret recipes,” Nalaam said. “It’s said that a Tinker can cook a pot of stew so fine that it will make you leave house and home to travel with them. It’s true, I’ve tasted it myself, and I had to be tied in a shed for three days before the effect wore off.”