A bit of dust wouldn't hurt his coat, nor what it was imbued with, but it was, Mahar supposed, the principle of the thing. What he'd brushed against, or what had brushed against him, was a mystery. The dust smudge, more road dust than old dust, was just below his hip, and on his side where-

Metal didn't do much to brush dust away, which was something he'd learned years before. It was nearly reflex to turn and lift material, bringing it closer to his good hand to brush it all away.

There, better. And back on his way again.