The fat man had gone red in the face, which was not unusual, and he was breathing raggedly. “Where have you been, when I needed you?” He demanded angrily.
“Exactly where you asked me to be, master,” Thrasher replied without any trace of subservience. To him, they were equals even if O'Bellah was in charge. “You asked me to stay low in case the captives made to escape once more, and once more I escaped with them.”
O'Bellah looked as though he was trying to find fault with Thrasher's report, but there was none. His fingers had locked so tightly around the hilt of the sword he carried, even now dripping with the inordinate amount of blood he had managed to spill, that they went white at the knuckles. His eyes were wide in rage, and his teeth were bared.
Thrasher stood there calmly, daring
