CHAPTER 59
Najud sat on his heels by his open pack and considered. The kazr that surrounded him, one of several that Umzakhilin had set aside for their goods and those of the summer encampment, was unheated and dark, its zamjilah covered against the snow. On the bare canvas, partially illuminated where his lantern shone directly, were two small leather pouches and the soft robe embroidered by Rubti for her tigha three or four years ago, a bit worn now by use.
He’d considered his formal ceremonial robes, the only other choice he had, but he’d glimpsed the clothing that Rubti had brought Penrys this morning, from Hadishti—good, clean, robes—but not the sort of thing intended for foreign cities, to represent the pride of his nation. It would embarrass her if he outshone her, and besides—hol
