up to save you, and you know it.”
“Better to die after three days o’ bliss than to lie in
some filthy cell in Malderpot contemplatin’ a more mun-
dane way o’ passin’.”
“We’re not dead yet. That’s something.”
“Is it now? You’re a fine one for graspin’ at straws.”
“I once saw a man start a fire with nothing more than a
blade of dry grass. It kept both of us warm through a night
in high mountains.”
“Well ‘e ain’t ‘ere and neither is ‘is fire.”
“You give up too quickly.” Jon-Tom looked ahead, to
where Chenelska strode proudly at the head of his band.
“I could put in for a writ of habeas corpus after we arrive,
but somehow I don’t think it would have much sway with
this Zancresta.”
“Wot’s that, mate? Some kind of otherworldly magic?”
“Yes. We’re going to need something like it to get out
of this with our heads in place. And let’s not forget poor
Clothahump for worrying about our own skins. He’s de-
pending on us.”
“Aye, and see ‘ow well ‘is trust is placed.”
They kept to back roads and trails, staying under cover
of the forest, avoiding intervening communities. Chenelska
intended to avoid unnecessary confrontations as well as
keep his not always reliable troops clear of civilization’s
temptations. So they made good time and after a number
of days arrived on the outskirts of a town too small to be a
city but too large to be called a village.
A crudely fashioned but solid stone wall encircled it, in
contrast to the open city boundaries of Lynchbany and
Timswitty. It wasn’t a very high wall, a fact Jon-Tom
commented on as they headed west.