as an agent, she needed to begin to collect contacts. But now, she wished that she hadn't shown him the sword. She didn't like people asking her questions about where she got it.
Molot beamed at her. “Wonderful,” he said. They all mounted their yithhe and continued towards the city of Wanthe.
She was taking a risk, but she felt the Agency would approve.
Asta also had one last resort--an internal locator. The Agency installed it so that it couldn't be removed or detected. If she went more than 50 hours without checking in, the Agency would use the locator and start a rescue mission. She'd never had to use it, but it was comforting to know that if anything went wrong, help would come.
It was then that Asta realized that Molot was a talker. He did nothing but talk. She sat back on her yithhe and decided to soak in all the information she could. And she could learn a lot in the four days it took them to get to Wanthe.
^ ^ ^ ^ *
The road to Wanthe was neither pleasant nor safe. Robbers hid along the road--rogue Garrans that even the Outlanders themselves could not control. Asta learned that her escort, Molot, was indeed the son of the chief of the Greystone Clan--though not one very close in line for leadership.
The older man was Yance, Molot’s uncle and bodyguard. Asta began to sense that Molot was not much of a fighter. She also sensed that her ooluk greatly impressed Molot. Perhaps he had taken her for a priestess because he talked of many things openly with her, including--Asta noted with interest--the upcoming rebellion of some of the clans. Then again, perhaps speaking openly was just his way.
Asta raised her eyebrows. “Tell me about it,” she encouraged him.
Molot shrugged. “People are angry, as they are always angry, at the Invaders.”
That the natives could call them “Invaders” after a century amused Asta--as if they were still foreign to Garran.
“Some tribes talk of taking action, but most of the time, it is just talk.” Then Molot glanced at her. “What we really need is the return of the Borrai. We need the gods to champion us as they once did.”
Asta stared back at him. She almost felt he expected her to do something about this.
Molot sighed and looked away. “But, many say, those days are done. Perhaps,” said Molot, as though maybe the gods would appear at any moment to aid the Garran. “It is difficult to say.”
Difficult to say whether the gods would suddenly return and champion the Garrans? Asta hid her incredulity.
“But,” said Molot. “That is a subject for the Clan Conclave to decide.”
Now Asta’s heartbeat quickened. “The Conclave is going to convene?”
She’d heard of this Clan Conclave. It was a rogue body of government still maintained by the outland natives. The Chanden hadn’t succeeded in eradicating it because it had no particular location. The natives would call a Conclave and then convene in a new place each time. Members of each tribe would be represented. Rarely had the Agency managed to infiltrate such a meeting.
Molot only smiled. They continued on their way.
The wilderness near there was mostly barren. Except for the tacha , wild humanoids—small monkey-like creatures that roamed the wilderlands further out. They seemed to have no true speech of their own, and spoke only gibberish. They were practically animals. Even the robbers feared them. Few traveled that road unless need drove them.
This area was not as desolate as other desert areas. Patches of Thania grass grew wild here, where Moorhen had to plant it at his clan home. River shrubs added a reddish orange color to the landscape. And here the trees grew taller.
The town of Wanthe nestled at the foot of some hills called "The Hands of the Gods." These tall hills were considered blessed, as water flowed freely from them year round. Still no one would go up there lest they lay eyes on the gods of Garran. Absurd superstition, of course. None of those things frightened Asta.
They stopped
Molot beamed at her. “Wonderful,” he said. They all mounted their yithhe and continued towards the city of Wanthe.
She was taking a risk, but she felt the Agency would approve.
Asta also had one last resort--an internal locator. The Agency installed it so that it couldn't be removed or detected. If she went more than 50 hours without checking in, the Agency would use the locator and start a rescue mission. She'd never had to use it, but it was comforting to know that if anything went wrong, help would come.
It was then that Asta realized that Molot was a talker. He did nothing but talk. She sat back on her yithhe and decided to soak in all the information she could. And she could learn a lot in the four days it took them to get to Wanthe.
^ ^ ^ ^ *
The road to Wanthe was neither pleasant nor safe. Robbers hid along the road--rogue Garrans that even the Outlanders themselves could not control. Asta learned that her escort, Molot, was indeed the son of the chief of the Greystone Clan--though not one very close in line for leadership.
The older man was Yance, Molot’s uncle and bodyguard. Asta began to sense that Molot was not much of a fighter. She also sensed that her ooluk greatly impressed Molot. Perhaps he had taken her for a priestess because he talked of many things openly with her, including--Asta noted with interest--the upcoming rebellion of some of the clans. Then again, perhaps speaking openly was just his way.
Asta raised her eyebrows. “Tell me about it,” she encouraged him.
Molot shrugged. “People are angry, as they are always angry, at the Invaders.”
That the natives could call them “Invaders” after a century amused Asta--as if they were still foreign to Garran.
“Some tribes talk of taking action, but most of the time, it is just talk.” Then Molot glanced at her. “What we really need is the return of the Borrai. We need the gods to champion us as they once did.”
Asta stared back at him. She almost felt he expected her to do something about this.
Molot sighed and looked away. “But, many say, those days are done. Perhaps,” said Molot, as though maybe the gods would appear at any moment to aid the Garran. “It is difficult to say.”
Difficult to say whether the gods would suddenly return and champion the Garrans? Asta hid her incredulity.
“But,” said Molot. “That is a subject for the Clan Conclave to decide.”
Now Asta’s heartbeat quickened. “The Conclave is going to convene?”
She’d heard of this Clan Conclave. It was a rogue body of government still maintained by the outland natives. The Chanden hadn’t succeeded in eradicating it because it had no particular location. The natives would call a Conclave and then convene in a new place each time. Members of each tribe would be represented. Rarely had the Agency managed to infiltrate such a meeting.
Molot only smiled. They continued on their way.
The wilderness near there was mostly barren. Except for the tacha , wild humanoids—small monkey-like creatures that roamed the wilderlands further out. They seemed to have no true speech of their own, and spoke only gibberish. They were practically animals. Even the robbers feared them. Few traveled that road unless need drove them.
This area was not as desolate as other desert areas. Patches of Thania grass grew wild here, where Moorhen had to plant it at his clan home. River shrubs added a reddish orange color to the landscape. And here the trees grew taller.
The town of Wanthe nestled at the foot of some hills called "The Hands of the Gods." These tall hills were considered blessed, as water flowed freely from them year round. Still no one would go up there lest they lay eyes on the gods of Garran. Absurd superstition, of course. None of those things frightened Asta.
They stopped
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