"I am Lura, of the tunnels of York. I was hunting, when the Master trapped me." She smiled, and gratitude was in her voice. "I thank you, Barb," she finished.
"Barb?"
"Of course—Barbarian, Barbar, Barb—whatever you like."
She notched the lever more, and the canoe swayed slightly from the increasing speed, water slapping brightly against the wooden sides. Trent watched her graceful movements, saw the swell of her breasts, the long clean lines of her body.
"So the world is conquered," he mused, half aloud.
Anger came to Lura's fine features, and her hand dropped to the knife at her waist. "I do not like joking about the world," she said stiffly. "The world is not conquered, not while any of us free people live."
Kimball Trent shifted to a more comfortable position. "I meant no joke," he apologized, while thoughts ran with quicksilver speed in his mind. "I do not know," he added. "I fell but a few days ago and hurt my head. I cannot remember many things."
Contrition came to her voice. "The magician will bleed you," she said, "and the reader will heal your mind."
"Magician—Reader?"
Suspicion hardened the girl's voice again, and the knife came clear of the sheath. Her gaze locked with his, and her words came softly one upon the other.