Turning Points Read Online Free PDF Page A

who’d walk right up and plant a fist in your face, not ruin a day’s work then hide like cess rats.”
    “Froggin’ cowards,” the apprentice muttered, barely loud enough for Dysan to hear.
    Dysan smiled at the insult. He was used to worse.
    The mason finally gave his full attention to the women again. “Begging your pardons, but not everyone’s happy to see someone new come to the Promise of Heaven. Memories of… the Hand and all.”
    Though not his motive, Dysan had to agree. He hated the Dy-areelans and mistrusted the ruling Irrune, the victims of most of his spying; but he had no grievance with the established religions of Ilsigi and Ranke. He remained unmoving, watching the interaction unfold beneath him.
    The gray-haired woman stiffened. The other’s mouth dropped open, and no words emerged for several moments. Finally, she managed, “But we’re not a temple—”
    The older woman took her arm. “No, SaMavis, but we are dedicated believers. A passerby could assume.” She smiled at the mason—at least Dysan thought she did. Her mouth pulled outward more than upward. “Whoever did it seems like an opportunist rather than someone willing to take credit or blame for his actions. Despite his presentation, I believe the young man is right. Our vandal is a coward. He wouldn’t dare bother our mason, and he’s not likely to touch the wall while we’re here either.”
    “Ma’am,” the mason started. “It might not be safe for a group of women…” As the older woman’s attention settled grimly upon him, he trailed off. “I just mean it—”
    The woman’s tone held ice. “I know what you mean. But we’ve bought this place, and here we will build. We’ll eventually have to live here, women that we are. What will we have then that we don’t have now?”
    “Walls?” the apprentice suggested.
    Dysan swallowed a laugh, his course already clear. He would let the stoneworkers build their walls and repair the leaky ceiling. Once he chased the newcomers away, he would have a fine home for which he did not have to pay a padpol.
    “We have the blessing of sweet Sabellia. She chose this place for us and She does nothing without reason.”
    Dysan did not recall a visit from any goddess. In fact, they had not answered the prayers of any of the orphans trapped in the Dy-areelan Pits. He wondered how so many fanatical worshipers convinced themselves that their god or goddess held a personal interest in the mundane doings of any human’s day. Had he not committed himself to statue-like stillness, he would have rolled his eyes in disdain.
    The mason went back to work without another word. To argue his point would only anger his clients, which tended to hamper payment. Dysan remained stock-still and planned his next strike.
    Dysan watched the women move basic packs and provisions to the Yard, counting five, all with Imperial accents. The youngest appeared a decade older than Dysan, the oldest the solemn woman who had handled their business with the stonemason and his apprentice. Their hair colors ranged from gray to medium brown, their features chiseled and fine, their skin Rankan ivory without a hint of Ilsigi swarthiness. Dysan waited until the stoneworkers took a break and the women disappeared to gather more of their belongings. Their conversation had revealed that they did not expect the vandal to return until after nightfall, so Dysan seized the opportunity.
    Slipping from his hiding place as quietly as any cat, Dysan glided around the crawl space, which allowed him a bird’s eye view of every angle in and near the ruins. No one hovered around the two still-standing adobe walls, behind the new construction, around the collected stones where the mule grazed on twisted shoots jutting between the debris. Attuned to the slightest sound, Dysan spiraled through shadows toward the packs. He trusted his senses to warn him of any traps and his intuition of any magic. Those things alone had never failed him.
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