Sira Nal's checks paled slightly with rage as he stared at his underling.
"Miron," he snapped, "I'm not going to tell you exactly what to do, or how. You're supposed to know how to treat emergencies, not to call me any time something outside of routine happens. I want a report on those ships tomorrow morning." He glanced out of the window. "I don't care how you do it, but find out what happened, and I don't ever want to hear you admit again that you can't account for any ship I ask about. Is that clear?"
Miron nodded unhappily. "Yes, sir." He bowed and backed out of the room.
He forced himself to suppress his anger as he gently closed the door. Then, he stood for a moment, fists clenched, as he directed a furious gaze at the panels.
"How?" he thought. "How does he expect me to know what's going on at sea unless ships come in to give me information, or I am able to go out personally. And how does he expect me to make a personal check in one night?"
He started walking along the corridor. "I have no supernatural powers, and he knows it. He's the prophet. Wish I'd never—"
He looked at the walls around him, then shook his head. No use thinking of that. None had ever successfully left the service of Kondaro. He continued to a stair, mounted it, then climbed ladders, to finally come out at the observation platform atop the temple. The observer bowed as his superior entered the little room just below the torch.
"Have there been any arrivals?"
"None, sir. I've seen no sails."
"I am going to send you an acolyte. If you see anything, send him to me immediately." Miron turned to go back to his quarters.