### 253

The man springs to his feet and unhooks an axe from his belt in readiness for combat. He wears a knee-length surcoat of scarlet cloth over a suit of heavy chainmail, and upon his chest is emblazoned a crest depicting a castle and an open hand. Paido hesitates, not from fear of his opponent, but because he has suddenly recognized the uniform of a soldier of the Tharro garrison.

‘There’ll be no fightin’ on board my barge!’ booms the angry voice of the captain. ‘Sheathe y’weapons or I’ll shine some daylight through yer gizzards!’

The captain stands at the foot of the tap-room stairs, a hollow tube of steel clutched in his hoary hands. Most of the passengers now have their fingers jammed in their ears in case he should fire his primitive-but-deadly Bor musket. Paido lowers his sword and apologizes for his rashness. He offers the soldier an ale and the man accepts—but on one condition—that it is not a mug of Ferina Nog!

Turn to 126.