He reached the spot. There was nothing. He gazed around. The shadows were dark.
Something just above his head made a sound. A pebble was dislodged, dropped on his shoulder and to the sand. He did not look up. On his way he'd seen a ledge there, its flat surface at about the height his hand could reach. The ledge, narrow, barely wide enough for a man to stand on, would not be empty now.
His hand blurred up at it, grasped something which yielded, then struggled. He tugged and a voice pleaded: "Lord, I'll fall!"
With a yank, he pulled the man off the ledge. He had hold of the man's ankle, then let go of it, and leaped on the man when he had fallen to the sand. There was a brief scuffle, and he had the man by the throat. He let his hands go loose for a moment and hissed:
"Who are you?"
"Please, lord. I mean no harm."
"Who are you?"
Just then Haazahri came up. "Why, I know this fellow," she said. "And so do you, Matlin."
He looked again. It was a woe-begotten face, meek, homely, the eyes terror-filled. Its owner said, "I am Ranmut the lowborn, lord."