No magician's fool was she, eyes ever keen on the waiting blade as his harmless palm upturned.<br/><br/>"A gardener," she replied at last, though nonsense it did seem, and her voice took a darker turn as she mused upon his features: "Yet, what are weeds 'cept planted poorly."<br/><br/>Her eyes lifted away and cast about around them, 'til she coveted a shell within the sands and knelt to claim it. A venus comb-- a spiral shell be-spined, unbroken. With its edge she cut a lock of salt-brined hair off her shoulder. This twisted black, now tucked inside the emptied curl of the shell, she offered to him with outstretched hand.<br/><br/>"Follow the set of sun 'til a clearing in the kelp you see, then turn your better face 'gainst its rays and walk 'til the sickmen's quay. Look then for your peoples' planter, their ink across the sky, but do not breathe a human word 'til my lock is dry."