Neglect not small things, for all ruling and war and magecraft are naught but small things, one built upon another. Begin then with the small, and look close,
and you will see it all.
“fifes of Far Travels
It was a good inn, but sometimes Shandril hated it. She was crying at the pain
in her scalded hands, the tears running down her chin and arms into the suds, as
she washed a small mountain of dishes.
ft was a hot Flamerule noon. Sweat stood out all over her like oil, making her
slim arms slippery and glistening. She wore only her old gray tunic, once Gorstag’s. It stuck to her here and there, but only the cook, Korvan, would see
her, and he would slap and pinch even if she were bundled up in furs like some
northern princess. She blew, sharply, and the lank blonde hair falling from her
forehead parted reluctantly in front of her eyes. Tossing her head to fling her
hair aside, Shandril narrowly surveyed the stack beside her and concluded with a
sigh that there were at least three hours’ worth of dishes left.
