Yorgh peered at her, and saw that she did not joke.
"If Moyt hadn't been there to stop him, I probably couldn't have even walked out here. You made a fine, merry day, Yorgh!"
The hunter rested his chin on his hand and looked down at the aimless patterns he was tracing in the dust with the end of the metal cylinder.
Time had been, he reflected, that he would have thought it funny to hear of Vaneen's being turned upside down and having some of the haughtiness knocked out of her. Once, even, he might have felt sorry for her afterward, or been enraged at the thought of Moyt's being there to ogle—or, worse, to intercede.
At the moment, he merely felt weary and discouraged.
"As you like," he said, "but it's dark out there, and a long way back."
He drew a circle in the dust and sliced it into quarters. After a moment, Vaneen turned back to the fire from staring across the dark plain. The long grass looked light gray in the dim light of Kloto, largest of The World's three moons. Lax would not rise till early morning, and tiny Atropo was so seldom seen that walking in its "light" was proverbial.
"Here," said Yorgh, "you can have my cloak for a cushion."
Vaneen stared expressionlessly at the tatters of his fine red tunic, and he could not tell what she thought.
"I have my own," she said, and unslung it from the back of her belt.