“What, then?”
“They entreat the suppliant—that’s you—to offer one city mitre.”
“Eh?”
“Two bronze bits, son. What about it?”
“I’ve only got ten.” And here Tyr and the priest simultaneously noticed Azhur strolling towards them. Tyr waved and the man suddenly seemed oddly agitated.
“One, then,” he snapped. “Works the same.” He shoved the holy parchment back under his robe and Tyr briefly spotted food stains and unsightly patches on his long tunic, which, not to be indelicate, was shockingly threadbare.
“Well,” mused Tyr. “I dunno. I’ll ask me friend there.”
But this was too much, the man’s pretence vanished shockingly. “What’s he know? He’s a bleedin’ novice!”
Tyr was stung. “Good as you!”
“Look, you want a prayer or not?” All persuasion was gone.
“Not from you!”
“Well, why don’t y
