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understood that proper explanations of consanguinity, collateral family lines, and connections by marriage quickly caused the eyes of the other Races of Man to glaze over, which made “uncle” or “aunt”—or the even more splendidly ambiguous “kinsman”—perfectly acceptable (if scandalously imprecise) substitutes.
    “Aye, and money’s not so bad an argument where my folk are concerned, come to that,” he acknowledged. “Not that there’s not those amongst us as would still prefer to be plundering those trade caravans like good, honest hradani! Still and all, I’m thinking my Da’s in a fair way to convincing them to change their ways.”
    “True,” Brandark said, stepping up on Chanharsa’s other side. “I find it sad, somehow, to see so many good, unwashed barbarian Horse Stealers succumbing to the sweet sound of kormaks falling into their purses.” He heaved a huge sigh. “Such decadence. Why, the next thing I know, they’re all going to be taking baths !”
    “Just you be keeping it up, little man,” Bahzell rumbled. “I’ve no need to ask Walsharno to be stepping on you, and I’m thinking as how you’d be getting a bath of your own—aye, and making a fine dam—if I was after shoving your head into that drain hole yonder.”
    “Speaking of drains,” the Bloody Sword said brightly, pointedly not glancing at Bahzell as he looked down at Chanharsa, “where does that one come out?”
    “Into the Gullet, like the others.” She shrugged. “By the time we’re done, we’ll probably have a river, or at least a fairly substantial stream, flowing back down it again. Year-round, I mean, not just whenever the snow melts up on the Wind Plain.”
    Brandark nodded, but his expression was thoughtful. They’d gotten farther and farther away from the narrow chasm which twisted down the towering height of the Escarpment from Glanharrow to the hradani city state of Hurgrum. The Balthar River had once flowed through that channel, before a massive earthquake had diverted it, long, long ago. That diversion had created The Bogs, as the vast, swampy area along the West Riding’s border with the South Riding were called, when it pushed the diminished Balthar to the north and cut it off from the tributary which had drained them into the Hangnysti, below the Escarpment. The Gullet remained, however, still snaking its own broken-back way to the Hangnysti, which made it a natural place to dispose of any water that turned up in the course of boring the tunnel through the Escarpment. By now, though, the head of the tunnel was the better part of a mile from the Gullet, and he rubbed the tip of his truncated left ear as he cocked an eyebrow at her.
    “I thought you could only do this sort of thing”—he waved at the newly created length of tunnel—“a few dozen yards at a time,” he observed.
    “ Most sarthnaisks could only do ‘this sort of thing’ a few dozen feet at a time,” she corrected him tartly. She gave him a sharp look for good measure, then shrugged. “Still, I take your point. But cutting a drainage channel is a lot simpler and more straightforward than cutting the tunnel itself. Each section of the tunnel is new and unique, and that requires a lot of concentration and focus, but I’ve made scores—probably even hundreds—of simple culverts and drainage systems. By now, it’s almost more reflex than thought to throw one in whenever I need it, and it’s even simpler than usual in this case. It’s mostly just a matter of visualizing a straight line with the proper downslope, and I just...tell it which direction to go and what to do when it gets there.” She shrugged again. “I’m sorry, Brandark. I know you’re still trying to figure out how I do it, and I wish I could explain it better, but there it is.”
    “Unsatisfied curiosity is my lot in life,” he told her with a smile. “Well, that and following Bahzell around from one scrape to another.” He shook his head. “It’s a