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leathery by many weathers, wherein his eyes stood ice-blue. His speech kept traces of a rough homeland accent, and his most conspicuous weapon – practically his trademark – was the heavy knuckleduster-handled curve-bladed shortsword favored in that antarctic country. Otherwise he wore only a purse-belt for small articles, and the arms and travel kit strapped in a bundle on his back or loaded in two wicker panniers. This included a hunting spear and a hatchet which could double as a weapon. Nothing was ornamented; it waswell-worn cloth, hide, wood, steel. His sole jewelry was a gold chain around the thick left wrist.
    The soldiers behind him were gaudier, sporting plumes, bead-work, jingling links. They were also very respectful of their shabby leader. Larreka Zabat’s son of Clan Kerazzi was perhaps the most demanding of the thirty-three legionary commandants. After two centuries in the Zera, he was far into middle age, three hundred and ninety on his last birthday. But he could expect another hundred years of health, and might well hope for more – if a barbarian didn’t get him first, or any of the natural catastrophes the Rover was brewing for the world.
    It slipped under the horizon. For a brief while, clouds to the north were sullen from its rays. Then the sane light of the Sun shone free. Cumulus loomed tall and white above a blue shadowiness hinting at storm.
    ‘Think it’ll rain, sir?’ asked the male from Foss Island. ‘I sure wouldn’t mind.’ Though near the equator, his home was refreshed by winds off the sea. Here he felt hot and dusty.
    ‘Save your thirst for Primavera,’ Larreka advised. ‘The beer there is good.’ He squinted. ‘N-n-no, I wouldn’t look for rain today. Tomorrow, maybe. Don’t be in a fume about it, son. You’ll soon get more water hereabouts than you can handle, enough to drown a galleyfish. Maybe then you’ll appreciate Valennen better.’
    ‘I doubt that,’ a companion said. ‘Valennen’s supposed to go even drier than it futtering well already is.’
    ‘Futtering ain’t the word, Saleh,’ a third put in with a crow of laughter. ‘Female pelts’ll get baked so stiff you could sand a hole in your belly.’
    His exaggeration was moderate. Loss of moisture did coarsen the mat of fine green plant growth covering most of a body. ‘Why, as for that,’ Larreka said, ‘heed the voice of experience,’ and described alternate techniques in blunt language.
    ‘But, sir,’ Saleh persisted, ‘I don’t get it. Sure. Valennen sees a lot more of the Wicked Star, a lot higher in the sky,than Beronnen does. I understand how it gets hotter than here. Only why’ll the country dry out that bad? I thought, ng-ng, I thought heat draws water out of the sea and dumps it as rain. Isn’t that how come the tropical islands are mostly wet?’
    ‘True,’ Larreka answered. ‘That’s what’s going to spill rain all over Beronnen for the next sixty-four years or more, till we’re in mud up to our tail-roots when we aren’t flooded out – not to speak of snowpack melting in the highlands and whooping down, to add to the fun and games. But Valennen’s saddled with those enormous mountains along the whole west coast, where the main winds come from. What little water the interior’s got will blow away eastward over the Sea of Ehur, while clouds off the Argent Ocean crash on the Worldwall. Now shut your meat hatch and let’s tramp.’
    They sensed that he meant it and obeyed. For some reason he recalled a remark which Goddard Hanshaw had once made to him:
    ‘You Ishtarians seem to have such a natural-born discipline that you don’t need any spit-and-polish – hell, your organized units like in the army hardly seem to need any drill. Only, is ‘discipline’ the right word? I think it’s more a, well, a sensitivity to nuances, an ability to grasp what a whole group is doing and be an intelligent part of it. … Okay, I reckon we humans catch on faster to certain ideas than