“Kinnan!” the plump man said, and laughed. His voice carried the name into her soul and fitted it into the void there.
“Farukh!” replied the man he had addressed. “Now, how do you like your name shouted aloud in the Tents of the Open Plain?”
“I like my name shouted anywhere, Master, except by the bailiffs. What storyteller doesn’t?”
“And what rebel does?”
