The sun set over a blazing province. Clouds of smoke as thick and menacing as thunderheads loomed over the west, and somewhere under the smoke and floating ash, frenzied goblin drummers pounded away relentlessly. Tennea and Sergeant Workman watched from an abandoned papaya plantation as hundreds of folk streamed into Nezpot.
“What safety will they find there?” Tennea wondered aloud. Workman shook his head silently, his mouth set in a grim line. “Let’s find out then,” Tennea said, and they fell in with a band of refugees walking toward the city.
“Who’s in charge in Nezpot?” Tennea asked an old green man.
“Quam knows,” the man said, looking sideways at Tennea’s uniform jacket. “If you don’t know, I don’t know who would.”
Tennea asked the same question a dozen times and got a similar answ
