She raised a hand. “Ah, no. Never.” (In the flash of her eye Rodvard saw how she was thinking of some witchery on a ship, something terrible and sickening connected with it.)
“Of course,” said Slair. “Against an Initiate, it would miss nine times out of ten. And concealment’s a weak resource. No, the problem is one of hiding you in plain sight; that is, to let them look but not know your identity. . . . Ah, I have it; let your hair down and the hem of your dress up to show an ankle; be one of those travelling strumpets who call themselves sea-witches.”
Lalette said steadily; “How will this deceive one of the Initiates?”
Demadé Slair made a twisting with his mouth. “Why, demoiselle, these Initiates are not magicians; they can read no more than thoughts and not all of those. All women have in them a trifle of the strumpet; you have but to think yourself one, be one with your mind. It would be a rare Initiate to tell the difference.”
(Lalette’s mind beat frantic wings; the bars were there again, whatever route she took led to the same cage); (and Rodvard caught enough of her thought to know how deep was her trouble.) “Is there not some better plan?” he asked.
“No time; see, the ship is stirring.” Demadé Slair stood up. “So now I must leave you.” The door banged behind him.
Lalette said; “This is a second rescue—from one prison to another, each time. I thank you, Rodvard.” (Her eyes flashed a dark color of anger, he knew what was stirring in her mind, but also that if he mentioned it directly, there would be a flash.)
He said; “Lalette, let me implore you. I will not quarrel with you about whose making this trouble is, or how we seem to go from one difficulty to another. But if we can work together, this escape shall be better than the last. I did not leave you at the couvertine.”
“Oh, I am grateful,” she said, in the tone of one who is not grateful in the least, turning aside her head. “If you had only—”
(He had wit enough not to carry this line on.) “Do you know anything of this revolt?” he asked.