Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 274
made you?"
"Ho, traveller! Well met on the road to Iapysia!"
For just a split second he thought the knife had said that.
Then Jordan looked behind him. A large covered wagon
drawn by two horses was coming up the road. Two people sat
at the front. The driver was waving to him.
Suddenly very self-conscious, he slipped the knife into
his belt. He knew the gold gauze was sticking out at his collar
and waist, but there was no time to do anything about that.
"Uh, hello." The man’s accent had been foreign. He was
middle aged, almost elderly, with a fringe of white hair around
his sunburnt skull. He was dressed in new-looking townsman's
clothes.
The other passenger was a woman. She looked to be
about Jordan’s age. She was dressed in frills and wore a sun
hat, but her face under it was tanned, the one whisp of stray
hair sunbleached. She held a embroidery ring in strong,
calloused hands. She was scowling at Jordan.
"Where are you bound, son?" asked the man.
Jordan gestured. "South. Iapysia."
"Ah. So are we. Returning home?"
"Uh, yeah."
"But you accent is Memnonian," said the old man.
"Um, uh. We have houses in both countries," he said,
mindful of the Boros example. He was itching to listen in to
the voices again; he had to know if his dialogue with the knife
had alerted the Winds. At the Boros manor, the whole
landscape had come alert, almost overwhelming his senses.
That wasn’t happening now. But he couldn’t be sure without
checking.
"My name’s Milo Suneil," said the man. "And this is--"
"Excuse me," gritted the young woman. She stood