As Jo walked away from the meeting with the caravan master, the string curtain jangled again.
Jo turned to see the other desert warrior. “Yes, honored captain?”
He snorted at the title. “This way.”
Jo waited until he caught up and then trailed him down the stucco-plastered hall in scuffling-sandal silence. When they rounded a corner well out of earshot from the office, the captain started speaking in Fasaid dialect of the desert tongue.
^Cut the Fersi honored so-and-so crap,^ he growled, ^And tell me what you think you’re doing, taking a demon-fucking religious job.^