His Cognizance Patera Remora is of course the head of the Vironese Faith-quite tall but not muscular, with lank gray hair he wears too long. He was at one time coadjutor in Old Viron (as we say it here). A good and a kind man, not as shrewd as he believes, prone to be too careful.

They were too many for our little house. Hoof and Hide and I made a rude table on the beach, laying planks across boxes and barrels and bales of paper. Sinew carried out all the chairs, I brought the high and low stools I use in the mill, and you spread the planks with cloths and set what little cheer we had before our uninvited guests. And so we managed to entertain all five, and even Gyrfalcon’s sailors, with some show of decency.

Marrow rapped the makeshift table, calling us to order. Our sons and the sailors were sitting on the beach, nudging one another, whispering, and tossing shells and pebbles into the silver waves. I would have sent them all away if I could. It did not seem to be my place to do so, and Marrow let them stay.

“First let me thank you both for your hospitality,” he began. “You owe us no favors, since we have come to ask you for a big one-”

Gyrfalcon interrupted, saying, “To grant you a privilege.” From the way he spoke, I felt sure that they had argued about this already.

Marrow shrugged. “I should have begun by explaining who we are. You know our names now, and even though you live so far from town, it’s likely that you also know we’re its five richest citizens.”

Remora cleared his throat. “Not, um, so. No-ah-intent to, um, contradict, but not, er, I.”