by Katy Winter
CHAPTER FIVE
“Hasten!” urged the voice. “There are more of them returning soon for the feast. The call has gone out that tonight's eating is a rare treat. I have your horses. Come! Come quickly!”
Quon found himself beside a small man about half his size, very slight, slanted eyes meeting his with urgent entreaty. Vaguely, he thought he should know who this man was. He was quite recognisable, but Quon was too wrought with anxiety for Jepaul to think about anything.
“You have the special one. Come!”
Quon knew an urge to quibble. Jumping from one fate to another that could be worse, lacked appeal. However, this little man sounded friendly where their attackers were most certainly not so Quon resigned himself and hoped the Varen thought he did the right thing.
The old man felt a sharp yank. He fell. He lost Jepaul. He was hauled inelegantly to his feet and muttering, fumbled his way after the small figure. He heard a faint curse. When it was followed by a louder outraged mutter Quon knew it was Knellen he heard somewhere behind him. He fell again, but this time more of a distance. He clambered irritably to his feet and as he stared about him, he realised the Varen almost trod on his heels.
“Where are we?” Quon growled.
He got an eloquent shrug and pointed teeth gleamed when Knellen actually smiled widely.
“I don't know,” came the affable, unruffled reply, “but if I was you, Quon, I'd oblige the little fellow by following. He seems impatient.”
Quon looked to the beckoning figure, sighed, and began laboriously to walk towards it. About to close with it, it disappeared and reappeared a long way ahead. Resigning himself, Quon plodded on. He could see the little man held a limp Jepaul as if the boy weighed nothing at all and he also led the horses.
The city they finally came to left the Varen speechless. Not so Quon. Now he’d had a chance to think and look around, he knew exactly where he was, who the little man was and he felt immediately comfortable and safe. The city was elegant. It was also in miniature, the people unconcerned by those who materialised beside their broad river or by their size. The Varen positively towered over everything. He promptly went to a kneel so he could study his surroundings more closely. Quon prudently did likewise. Their guide stood still and surveyed them, the reins of horses held loosely.
“Welcome to Grohold,” he said in a stilted way. “I couldn't bring you the usual way because too many Cefors were around for the feast.”
“Groundlings,” murmured Quon, his eyes moving from one object to another with appreciative fascination. “You’re Grohols.”
The little man turned to him, a sudden smile illuminating a face that habitually looked serious.
“I answer to Cheek, and indeed Groundling's our ancient name. I shouldn't be surprised you know of us because you're Maquat Dom Earth of the Four.”
“Yes, I am,” answered Quon, on a heavy sigh. He sat. “Don't tell me,” he went on. “Were you asked to watch for us?”
“We were told Earth came to us. You do. We welcome you. Groundlings we were and still are I suppose, but we have always answered to Grohol.” Cheek laid Jepaul down beside Quon. “The boy's hurt. I'll get help for him.” He pulled off his vest that he handed down to the old man. “Put that across his chest. If he gets any colder he could die. Your horses will be cared for.”
Unwilling to think more, Quon laid the vest on Jepaul's chest, then managed to properly wrap the child, now unconscious, in his coat. The Varen silently held down his light cloak. That was also wrapped round Jepaul to help keep him warm. It was Knellen who removed the gag from the slack mouth.
“Just in time,” he murmured, rocking back on his heels before he too sank thankfully back.
“Again, we owe our lives to you, Knellen,” said Quon softly. “We thank you.”
“I begin to think, Quon, that I owe my life to you and the boy,” returned the Varen as softly. He met Quon's quizzical look but refused further comment.
They were housed outside the city where they were very comfortable and their every need was met. The Grohols were fascinated by Jepaul from their first sighting of him. He quickly regained consciousness and was soon able to talk in a coughing croak. He was shaken by his ordeal but unshaken in his faith that the Varen and Quon would always be there for him. He was so thin he once more looked transparent, as if the experience with the Cefors had made him shed any recently gained weight. The nail marks were painful rakes and punctures that became infected and made the boy long to scratch. His baldness merely emphasised his appalling frailty. Grohols clucked over that and brought him tempting delicacies that made dull eyes brighten.
On the next day Quon allowed Jepaul to get from the bed. He walked unsteadily about; the long thin sticks that passed for legs wobbled uncertainly as the boy lurched from one object to another. By the third day the infection subsided, the wounds healed and Jepaul was back to himself. Even the auburn hair started to grow in soft unruly baby curls that bounced about his head. When Quon told the boy he looked a quiz, he got a grin and a shake of the head. Knellen too laughed gently at the boy.
After five days, Jepaul was healed and passed his nine syn day. Quon went through the ceremony that saw Jepaul pass from childhood to formal Shalah boyhood. The Varen, true to his word, said he could now teach the boy to ride a horse and show him how to defend himself since he was the correct age. It marked the end of Jepaul's childhood, something he farewelled with no regrets.
The Grohols, intrigued by what they watched and heard, asked what was the significance of the rites Jepaul underwent and why the torc was repeatedly, though distastefully, touched. When the rites were explained, the Grohols nodded. They left then returned and very gently coaxed Jepaul to lie down on his bed. Nervously, Jepaul obeyed. His big wistful eyes met Quon's.
“There's nothing to fear, Jepaul.”
“The band about your neck, boy? Is it your wish to wear such crude decoration? We can give you something finer.”
Before Jepaul could speak, the nearest Grohol stooped and applied an instrument to the torc. It made it so hot Jepaul gave a faint yelp. It was a cry that died as fast as it came because the torc simply dissolved in the middle and fell onto the bed beside him. Stunned, the boy stared up uncomprehendingly.
“Thank you!” he gasped with real gratitude. The Grohol held down a finely wrought choker with a proper clasp. “For me?”
“For you,” smiled the Grohol. He carefully and gently clasped it about the slender neck. “It's a gift for your nine syn day, boy, and your move from child to boyhood.” He saw tears in the odd eyes and felt long thin fingers curl about his hand. “We know you thank us, Jepaul. You're welcome here. None here think of you as caste or tainted - quite the reverse.” The Grohol bowed to Quon. “Will you come with me to the Vene? He's waited until the boy's truly well before speaking with you, but says now's the time.”
“He's right,” answered Quon, rising from beside Jepaul who fingered his gift with amazement. “It's my honour to come.”
Jepaul watched him go then crossed to the Varen uncertainly.
“Master, look what the Grohols gave me.”
Knellen looked up and beckoned the boy to come nearer so he could inspect the gift closely.
“That, boy, is a unique gift and very beautiful.”
“No one's given me gifts,” whispered Jepaul. “Only Quon sometimes gave me treats. I love him,” he added simply.
Knellen gravely regarded the boy.
“I can understand why, Jepaul. He cares for you too.” He meditatively contemplated the boy still fingering the elegantly wrought choker made of some rare underground gems unknown to the Varen. “How old is Quon, boy?”
Jepaul left the choker and turned up his head to survey Knellen, the odd shaped eyes laughing.
“Ancient,” he replied.
“Not just old then?”
Jepaul shook his head.
“I don't think so, Master. Once I thought he was just an ordinary old man who was kind to me
, but I don't think that any more.”
“Why?” pursued the Varen, amused and touched by the rather quaint wisdom that sometimes touched the youngster.
“I don't know,” confessed Jepaul. “It's just something inside tells me he's different.”
“Are you?”
“No,” returned Jepaul promptly, the grin dispelling the sudden unexpected gravity of the boy's expression. “I'm just a low caste boy from a tainted line. Mesmauve told me so often enough.”
“Do you miss Mesmauve?” The shake of the head was a vigorous negative. “Was he kind to you?”
“No,” came the slow answer. “Quon said he, he des-, des-, didn't like me,” finished the boy, exasperated at a word that eluded him.
“Despised you,” offered Knellen helpfully.
“Yes, that,” agreed Jepaul. He looked confidingly up at the Varen again. “I've got five toes on each foot you see. It's not a mark Mesmauve could live with. He said so.” Jepaul tilted his head, then asked a mite anxiously. “Do you mind riding with someone who carries the curse and taint of his family line?”
“Once, child, I might, yes. That's because it was how I was raised to react to low caste or those cursed. But now, knowing you, I recognise that such attitudes have no place at all, none. I don't despise you, if that's what you ask.”
“And it won't bother you to teach me to ride when we leave here?”
“No, Jepaul, it won't bother me at all.” Knellen stretched down a hand to ruffle the thin fluffy layer of curls. “The Varen don't lie.”
He was surprised when Jepaul moved closer and even more deeply touched when a small thin hand crept into his. His fingers closed firmly over it.
While Jepaul and Knellen spoke, Quon followed the elder Grohol who seemed to be the one who watched Jepaul most closely. His sombre expression clearly showed the boy intrigued him in some way.
Still the Grohol skirted the city. It was now understood by the visitors that though they were guests, and honoured ones too, the city was for Grohols and Grohols only. Apart from anything else, Quon appreciated that those of ordinary Shalah size could do untold unintentional damage simply by virtue of their size. Where they were quartered was designed for those of normal Shalah height, a fact that gave Quon pause and made him wonder whether, in his studies and travels, he'd missed something of vital significance concerning these little people though he’d known them for so long.
He followed closely. He and those with him had been asked to confine themselves to their area and if they deviated from it were expected to literally stay in touch with their guide. As he walked at a very slow amble to match the brisk pace of the Grohol, Quon studied his surroundings, his comprehension and appreciation deepening with each excursion he made to a different part of this underground city. It was a diverse, large complex of both residential and industrial areas, each separate and self-contained.
These folk lived well. Their architecture was deceptively simple. It was only when close to it that an observer became aware of intricate details and delicate friezes and mosaics that formed elegant decoration. The city was colourful too, because the Grohols loved brightness. Nothing was dull. Where other towns that saw daylight had grasses and parks, here the Groundlings used artificial light cast from rocks all about the city to grow things in huge pots, urns, any container in fact. The profusion of growth was staggering. It was intensely pretty. The Grohols liked scent too. Everything that grew was scented. And the Grohols worked crystal as an art form, crystal of every shape and size hung from doorways and windows, the sculpture breathtakingly beautiful. It was made with precision. Quon was entranced.
He stopped musing when he was halted at an entrance to what he thought was a cave, but once he stooped and entered, he saw it was a lighted spacious cavern of huge proportions. At one end of it he saw an elderly Grohol working crystal. Absorbed in his effortless creativity the old man's hands moved rhythmically, his expression one of intense concentration. The form he wrought took slow shape in front of his invited guest. Quon simply stood and watched.
After a long pause, during which Quon's escort disappeared, the old Grohol raised his head, smiled, then quietly laid aside his tool and put the crystal object to one side. He waved hospitably to his side. Quon saw he sat on a natural outcropping and joined him. He was startled by the warmth that surged through him as he sat.
“You find the warmth of the stone to your liking?” asked the amused Grohol.
Quon nodded.
“Indeed, friend, at my age and with my venerable bones, any warmth is welcome.”
The Grohol chuckled.
“I'm the Vene of a more northern Grohol community,” he offered with another smile. “But I answer to Ospre.”
“I'm Quon.”
“More than Quon,” corrected the old Grohol, a hand crossing his eyes. “You're Maquat Dom Earth.”
“That's so. How did you know? And how did you know where to find us?”
“We were given a sign,” explained Ospre calmly. He read Quon's expression and added simply, “The Grohols still follow the old ways and the old beliefs, Maquat. Didn't you know that?”
“I confess my ignorance,” answered Quon. “It’s long, long syns since I’ve been with your kind – far too long, I know.”
“You've been travelling Shalah for very long syns,” replied Ospre gently, “and your mind's been preoccupied by what you've seen happening around you. No Maquat can see and do all.”
“No,” concurred Quon heartily, with a smile. “You're right. My concerns have been with the corruption of power. It's that aspect of Shalah life that worries me.”
“With that sort of corruption go other woes,” added Ospre. “It's not just corruption of the state and all it represents, is it? It's the corruption of the soul and the values that upheld society as you knew it. We hear more than you might think, nor are we an isolated group that does and sees nothing. Those on the surface know nothing of us because we've chosen it should be that way, but we know much of them. What we see we don't like.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Quon absently.
“So where are you taking the child?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because he appeared to me not long ago.”
“What?” demanded Quon.
“As I sat and worked here, an image of that boy shone through the rock as if the child stood there. He was expressionless, but his eyes spoke so distinctly I believed, just for a ridiculous instant, that Jepaul was actually a reality, a living breathing reality. Since then, we've watched for him. I also knew there'd been a coalescing of all four existing Elementals because I sensed it in the near aethyr. It was the Maquats, wasn't it?” Quon nodded pensively. “Was it you who called it?” Quon nodded again. “I'm the only Grohol to sense such things. None other than I have that ability.”
“Did you, long ago, train on the Island?”
“Yes,” came the expected answer.
“To what level?”
“Master Llom Sen,” said the old Grohol quietly. “I specialised in Elementals.”
“Ah!” said Quon with a knowing look. “Then indeed you'd sense me, all of us in fact.”
“I did. It's why I sent Cheek to search for you. The earth movement in response to your summoning made the rocks vibrate, Maquat Dom. There was no way I could miss it.”
“No,” laughed Quon amused. “And the sign you spoke of?”
Ospre's expression became very grave.
“Quon, in my mind I saw what I thought was the progenitor of that boy's line, but the image was of a very much older man. It was extraordinarily faint. Nor do I believe it was actually the Progenitor himself or a projection of him. Whoever it was, far away as he is, knew that I saw the image and understood his words. He nodded. After he faded I heard a voice that spoke distantly, words that still echo, and they spoke of the child as a chosen one. The child's so like his ancestor, even though he’s only a child. Yet it seems to me that he lacks the wor
st aspects of the original who tried to destroy Shalah.” He made a protective gesture across his heart. “The Progenitor lives in the appearance of that child.”
“Why would some being from so far away appear to you in a vision now?”
“I don't know,” came the troubled answer. “The Progenitor, and as I said I swear it wasn't him this time, was nothing but trouble, his offspring mostly alienating all by their superior and stupid arrogance. It was a familial trait that seemed to go on and on. How many syns have passed since those turbulent days?”
“Many,” said Quon calmly. “It makes your vision so odd, doesn't it?”
“Yes.” Ospre nodded tiredly. “But the vision was real enough, Maquat Dom, you can believe me. I'd no more make up such a story than go to the surface of Shalah.”
“Why was Jepaul called the chosen one?”
“Because he is,” said Ospre promptly. “That's what I heard from so far away.”
“Are you suggesting the words were spoken beyond Shalah?”
“If I was on the surface now, Maquat, I'd be burned for expressing such a heresy. It defies the deification of those currently in power. There are others who'd be anxious to dispose of me. I don't need to spell out more for one like you.”
Diverted, Quon eyed the old man with interest.
“Of whom do you speak?”
“Who sent that Varen with you, Maquat?”
“Jamir, Cynas of your nearest city-state. All those here under his hegemony owe allegiance to him.”
“Yah!” hissed the Grohol uncharacteristically. “You'd not know he was taught by a master from the Order long ago, would you?”
“On the contrary,” answered Quon soberly. “It's that teaching that's enabled him to subjugate so many.” The old man looked sad. “Such an abuse of our intentions, Ospre, such a subverting of noble aspirations and hopes. I've watched the changes in society for syns and I tried to confront them in my own way. The only way I can do this is to go from place to place where I feel I may do some good for a while. My longest stay has been with Jepaul. I'm the only one allowed such wanderings a distance away from the Island and you know it's where I try to take the child, for his safety if nothing else. The corruption you sense and speak of affects all city-states on Shalah.”
“Do you trust the Varen? They're not bred and raised to do other than serve.”
“He gave Jepaul and me our lives.”
“For what purpose? Is it so he can raise the stakes then later take credit for taking you back to Jamir and his hellish minions?”
Quon was distracted by part of this singularly bitter speech.
“Minions,” he repeated. “Minions?”
“Didn't you see, old man?” hissed the Grohol in agitation.
“You mean the Nedru?”
Quon watched the old face darken then whiten.
“Them,” came the succinct reply.
“You suspect what I do about them, don't you?” Ospre nodded. “And you think the boy, through his ancient lineage and inheritance, is directly or indirectly responsible?” asked Quon incredulously. “Do you see the child as evil incarnate then?”
“No,” came the hasty response. “No, those of his line may have shared a link, but I don't believe this child does. I've watched him. He's innocence personified.”
“He's also telepathic,” said Quon sharply. “Not all telepaths are bad, any more than those taught over thousands of syns through the Order or on the Island are good.”
“No,” agreed Ospre. “Of course they aren't. I suspected the boy was telepathic. That was confirmed for me the moment the child opened his eyes.”
“He called out, telepathically, very loudly one day when he was thrashed yet again by those older than himself. It was the Red Council who heard his cry and summoned him for summary execution. He could not have saved himself.” Quon paused, then frowned heavily, his eyebrows meeting. “Exactly when did you have the seeing, Ospre?”
The Grohol frowned too. He sighed.
“It was not quite a syn ago, Maquat. It was the start of the warmer upper days.”
Quon concentrated deeply.
“Ospre, was it the waning of the moons, or the waxing of them?”
Ospre looked surprised but answered promptly.
“The waxing, my friend, of course, because we feasted to celebrate the return of brightness.”
“And can you isolate the exact day of that feast?”
“Yes,” answered the Grohol simply. “It was Medrun's day, at the fourteenth hour. Why?”
“Because, Ospre, that is the precise time Jepaul was alleged to have called out. And it was a moment in time when there was a disturbance around the outer aethyr of Shalah, a ripple that distracted me for some days.”
“The Progenitor?” asked the Grohol, with deep dread in his voice.
“No,” came the prompt reply. “It was nothing like any faint signature I've ever read. It was quite alien.”
“Hostile?”
“I've no reason to believe so,” answered Quon with a reassuring smile. “It passed so quickly I even wondered if I'd actually read the signs correctly. But it seems, from what you tell me now, that I was right.” Quon scratched his beard thoughtfully, then gave the Grohol a penetrating look. “So, do you think Jepaul, being the child of that cursed line, somehow asserted power and may, intentionally or otherwise, have awakened an ancient link between the Progenitor and his servants the Nedru?”
“I don't know,” came an uncertain response.
“I don't think so,” said Quon quietly. “You saw the image of someone and received a message that encouraged you to support the child, for whatever reason. That remains obscure. But it was not threatening to Jepaul, was it?” Ospre shook his head dubiously. ”Jepaul may well be a chosen one but we've no idea who he might be chosen by or for what purpose, if for any at all.” Quon pondered by nibbling on a fingertip. “I can assure you that the boy, wittingly or unwittingly, couldn't unleash the Nedru. He hasn't knowledge and certainly lacks the power or ambition. He's as you see him, a vulnerable but gifted child barely nine syns. He's still only a child. Nor are his telepathic abilities conscious. I've no idea how deep they are, have you?”
“No.”
“Then maybe, my friend, it's time we found out. I'll meet you in the boy's quarters after he's gone to bed tonight.”
“I'll bring a cup of asageh.”
“I'll see you then.” Quon rose stiffly and turned to leave the cavern.
“I'd not harm the child, Maquat Dom. Even if I wished to, which I don't, I'd not be foolish enough to challenge a child under the Earth's protection.”
Quon turned back.
“Your worries bother me, Ospre, but I know what motivates them. Where Jepaul's concerned I believe you've nothing to fear, but otherwise I think there's much on Shalah to fear these days. I have the deepest sense of foreboding that's been crystallising ever since I spoke so briefly with Jamir. Something's wrong, isn't it?”
“Yes, Maquat,” agreed the old Grohol. “Very wrong.”
Both Quon and Ospre left where the boy slept peacefully, their minds in confusion. Jepaul's mind was completely open. There was no guile, no desire other than to be loved and cherished, and no ambition or comprehension of power of any kind. He was simply a boy built in the mould and shape of an ancient one, but he lacked any other inheritance from that Progenitor, except in one regard. His telepathic and empathic powers were so profound they wrapped about the child like a cloak. He radiated the potential for an extraordinary degree of insight, creativity, idealism and vision. He was an original. He was highly spiritual, intuitive, and his senses were abnormally heightened in one of such tender age.
“How could the Red Council miss this?” demanded Ospre baffled.
“Maybe they didn't,” returned Quon curtly, his mind reeling. He was badly shaken. This was a new Jepaul, a Jepaul who seemed to be reborn from the child taken for execution. “Or,” he added suddenly, his voic
e softening, “what they did to him opened him. That may be it.”
“What?” asked Ospre irritably. He scratched his head. “My mind reels with the implications of what confronts that boy, Maquat,” he complained.
“The boy was purged, Ospre. The purification was done over hours. Each successive dose was stronger than the last, until he was ready to be passed on to the final ritual before execution. The purification they dealt him was what they'd do to an adult, all body openings constantly monitored to ensure the purge did it's thorough cleansing.”
“The ritual purge!” choked Ospre appalled. “He's but a child! That's wickedly cruel for an adult. It causes intense burning, the pain alone enough to kill.”
“Or it can make an inner power manifest itself in order to protect, though at one point I doubted we'd bring the boy round and out of it. He was a right mess. He couldn't eat properly. For days his insides were desperately sore. His nose bled for three days and so did his ears, not to mention other parts of him. The Varen cared for him too and cradled the boy when Jepaul called out in pain.”
“You think that experience brought about a flowering of his telepathy?”
“Yes, I do. I never sensed it as such a force before. I just knew the child was a latent telepath but of no remarkable degree. And I knew he needed caring for because he was emtori and cursed by his line, but now I can almost smell the gift about Jepaul.”
“What can you do?”
“Get him to the Island as fast as I can where we can watch him, help him, train him even. It's the only place on Shalah he'll be safe.”
“How long before others begin to sense, or realise, what his value to them could be? Think what he could mean to them, Maquat, just think!”
“I'd rather not,” answered Quon rubbing his forehead.
“If, as we both suspect, the Nedru are among us,” said Ospre carefully, “and they suddenly realise a child of the Progenitor is alive but also has massive gifts, then your Jepaul's life, such as he knows it, hangs by a very thin thread.” Ospre stared at the ground. “The Nedru are great workers on the mind, Maquat Dom, as you know. Would Jepaul's mind be sophisticated enough to resist their skills and manipulations? Could they actually mould him and make him like the one they served so long, long ago?”
“No!” uttered Quon explosively, his mind working furiously.
“I think, Maquat, you've underestimated Jamir,” suggested the Grohol thoughtfully. “He'd have executed the child out of hand but you stopped him. That'll have roused his curiosity if nothing else. The Red Council may not know what Jepaul is, but, like Jamir they want to satisfy themselves about a boy who was saved by an intrepid and determined old man. They may suspect the hand of the Maquat Doms. Despite your assertion they believe you're all dead, they may wonder, because Doms don't just act irrationally or for no reason. You say you saved the boy because you came to care for him. That boy's damnably seductive empathy probably drew you in, as it may draw in the Varen.”
“Maybe,” conceded Quon yawning. “So you're saying we'll be allowed to go so far before the net begins to close and draws tight?”
“That's exactly what I'm saying,” came the grim rejoinder.
“Because you think the boy's telepathy is actually recognised?”
“Not yet, but it's so powerful it's only a matter of time.”
“I see.” Quon was thoughtful. “And you guess the Varen will obediently deliver us into their hands?”
“Why not? He's been honest enough to admit that's his role, hasn't he?”
“Of sorts, yes.”
“Kill him,” advised Ospre calmly.
“Certainly not,” retorted Quon indignantly. “What a response to one who's treated us with kindness and saved our lives. Such ingratitude is unspeakable!”
“You could rue the day you let him go with you,” warned Ospre broodingly.
“Perhaps, my friend, but until I'm given cause to doubt Knellen, he stays a trusted friend who travels with us. If I could find a way to remove the writhling his life would be easier.”
“He fights an inserted writhling?” asked the Grohol, frankly disbelieving. “No one can. Those things are insidious and devour the mind as well as devour the body of a host. Once they've done that they direct the mindless husk. That speaks of the Nedru if nothing else does. Are you telling me that man fights one?”
“Yes. I give him something to block the most powerful aspects of its control, but I need to get rid of the vicious thing before it does irreparable damage.”
“There's only one person who can help you there,” said Ospre, in a pitying voice.
“'I think I know what you're going to say,” answered Quon on a sigh. “You took off the boy's caste torc but I know writhlings are something else again.”
“Beyond us,” concurred Ospre with a frown deep in his eyes. “I wish we could take the throat caste mark from the boy, but we can't. It’s too deeply cut and dyed. The writhling though.” He gave a shudder. “You can't stay longer, Maquat Dom, not if you seek help for one you say helped you.”
“I know.” Quon held out his hand. “I thank your people for all you've done, Ospre. We'll leave the day after tomorrow.”
“One of our kind will accompany you,” said Ospre flatly, aware of the refusal in Quon's eyes. “Saracen will go. He knows the lands for miles. He will prove an invaluable travelling companion. He’s a young man of enormous and wide talents, resourceful and able to defend himself in surprising ways. We have other gifts for the child as well.”
Quon raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his mind too busy.
