"All right, all right," there's laughter--strained laughter, but laughter all the same--in Myr's voice as he drops a pat on Garahel's head for the mabari's enthusiasm. "Don't pummel me to death. --Right. All due caution and keeping my voice down, then. Lead on, Warden Serra."

Sandwiched between Melys and Garahel he's unlikely to get lost--but he's oblivious to the trail markers the others are using, and there's no saying he might not lose his escort if things become difficult. He weighs Anders' words in his mind--considers how paper-thin reality feels here--and at last sketches a crude glyph in the road with his staff. It winks dimly from the dust once it's complete, silent and barely visible in the filtered light. Unlikely to attract attention. (He hopes.)