Chapter nine“It really does look as though I can’t go off and leave you, cabbage, without you running your fool neck into trouble. I was sure the shint wouldn’t recognize you in that remarkable get-up.”
“Well, he did.” I mumbled something about Tiny Tanch and the Fristle fifi Fashti. We sat in her tent. But I was not really there. I was still standing out there on the edge of the plain as the blue radiance died. I remember with absolute clarity that the scent of Moonblooms mingled on the air with someone frying momogrosses. A girl was singing in a tent close by. She sang “Oh for the Sword of my Lover”, which is a sad little ditty filled with long cadences and the drawn out vowels of sadness. Whenever I hear that song I am transported back to that dusty grass plain outside Ankharum where I
