Teri McLaren
took his place by the tallest column. He was one of the men from the crew Muni ran, one of the few who did not believe in the old juma stories of an evil djinn which had once hovered over this place, bringing deadly sandstorms and making it uninhabitable, the very reason old Sumifa had moved to its present location. Muni's explanation to Cheyne had been more pragmatic: the community had simply outgrown its bounds, and the river had changed its course over the years, forcing them to rebuild across the Nantas to the west, where the town now rambled and sprawled, every so often adding another wall around the last when the population expanded. But the old legends had a hold on most of the Sumifan citizens-ask any Fascini's right-hand man, and the answer was the same. Old Sumifa had moved because it was destroyed by an evil force which still roamed the dunes.
"Muni?"
"Yes, my friend."
"By chance, did you see a tall elf in the city yesterday?"
"No, I did not." Muni laughed. "But if I had, or if I do, I will be certain that you are the very first person I tell."
Cheyne sighed and dropped down into the pit, the torch Muni had tossed in before him burning brightly on the newly swept marble floor. Several of Muni's despised vermin had scattered from the fire, and a couple of fancollar lizards, the scorpions' chief predators, skittered after them, their tiny claws clicking faintly on the marble floor. Nature seemed to balance everything, thought Cheyne, taking a bucket from Muni, scraping it full of sand, shaking it over the screen into another bucket, handing that one back up full, receiving another empty one.
The work continued rhythmically, uneventfully, for an hour, Cheyne's mind turning to his afternoon's adventure, wandering through the streets of Sumifa again, to Riolla's, to the fight with her assassin, to the odd helper he'd found and lost again so quickly.