The old man was still staring at Nyci. His eyes pierced hers with furious accusation. She opened her mouth and then shut it. And then opened it again.

“Globberworms!” she cursed.

“I beg your pardon?” The old man drew himself up. He was taller than he had first seemed and towered, angry, above her.

“Globberworms.” she repeated. “They must have got into the herb-growth-potion again.”

“This has happened before?” questioned Santi. He was more placid than the old man.
Nyci’s imagination froze for a second, and then defrosted.

“Most certainly!” she said. She almost believed herself through the poisonous conviction in her tone, “They eat the roots and infect the plants. But nothing will be harmed, they will be recovered.”

She excused herself quickly, leaving the Denar with some servants and ten platefuls of raw meat to serve as an appetizer and ran through the gardens.

“Therys!” she shouted, catching sight of him. He shrank back a little, looking hurt at her tone, “What the hell is going on?”