as well as the teachings of the scholars in the Grove who had trained Adrian.
Mind was Mind and Matter was Matter, there was an end to it—and Adrian, not Center, controlled the matter that was his body.
He scooped the boy up in his arms and lifted him. Then, turned his head to the barbarian who had taken him to Esmond's tent. The old man was one of Adrian's spies. Spies whom he had hired, initially, to keep an eye on his new Southron "allies"—but had then found it necessary to keep an eye on his own brother. This oldster had been the one who had told Adrian of the tortures Esmond was inflicting on a new slave.
The man was very agitated by now, practically dancing on his feet.
"Hurry—hurry—young master!" he hissed. "Your brother will return soon. If he finds us—"
Adrian saw no point in arguing that point, either. The spy's worry was too shortsighted, for one thing. It had been midmorning when Adrian entered the tent. Leaving now, still before noon, they would be seen by dozens of the barbarians who teemed in the great annual meeting ground outside Marange. There was no way Esmond would not find out who took the boy. By the end of the day; probably even before nightfall.
Esmond would be . . . enraged. Furious enough that he might even attack his own brother. He would certainly seek vengeance on the spy.
As he stalked through the tent flap held open by the spy, carrying the boy's body quite easily for all his own short stature, Adrian paused a moment and said: "Take the gold in the pouch at my belt. There's enough there to reach your village—it's on the other side of the continent, I believe—and leave a goodly bonus for you. Take it and leave immediately."
He heard the spy whisper some kind of thanks, in a dialect he could not really understand. A few quick fingers working at the pouch—no tyro at theft, either, this spy—and the old man seemed to vanish.
Well done, said Raj. With some humor: That's an expensive bonus, but still a smart move. Your other spies will know what happened, and