The boy broke off. He had spied a seedy-looking young man approach. At once he sped to intercept, windmilling his fists, yelling too quickly and shrilly for Everard to catch more than a few words. “—louse-bitten jackal!… I saw him first… Begone to the latrine that spawned you—”

The young man stiffened. He reached for a knife hung at his shoulder. Hardly had he moved before the stripling snatched a sling from his pouch and a rock to load it. He crouched, leered, swung the leather strap to and fro. The man spat, said something nasty, turned on his heel, and stalked off. Laughter barked from such passersby as had paid attention.

The boy laughed too, gleefully, loping back to Everard. “Now that, sir, was a prime example of what I meant,” he crowed. “I know yon villain well. He’s a runner for his father-maybe his father—who keeps the inn at the Sign of the Blue Squid. There you’d be lucky to get a rotten piece of goat’s tail for your dinner, the single wench is a shambling farm of diseases, the pallets hang together only because the bedbugs hold hands, and as for the wine, why, I think the wench must have infected somebody’s horse. You’d soon be too sick to notice that grandsire of a thousand hyenas when he plundered your baggage, and if you sought to complain, he’d swear by every god in the universe that you gambled it away. Little does he fear hell after this world is rid of him; he knows they’d never demean themselves there by letting him in. That is what I’ve saved you from, great lord.”

Everard felt a grin tug at his lips. “Well, son, you might be stretching things just a trifle,” he said.

The boy smote his thin breast. “No more than needful to give your magnificence the proper impression. Surely you are a man of the widest experience, a judge of the best as well as a generous rewarder of faithful service. Come, let me bring you to lodgings, or whatever else you may desire, and then see for yourself whether or not Pummairam has led you aright.”