Authors: David Eddings
Emban nodded. ‘And it made me feel cold.’ He shuddered. ‘I’m still cold, as a matter of fact.’
‘It was unfriendly, too,’ Kalten added. ‘Not quite ready to attack, but very nearly.’
‘Anything else?’ Sparhawk asked them. ‘Anything at all – no matter how small.’
‘There was a peculiar odour,’ Oscagne told him.
Sparhawk looked at him sharply. He had never noticed that. ‘Could you describe it at all, your Excellency?’
‘I seemed to catch the faintest smell of tainted meat – a haunch or a side that had been left hanging for perhaps a week too long.’
Kalten grunted. ‘I caught that too, Sparhawk – just for a second, and it left a very bad taste in my mouth.’
Emban nodded vigorously. ‘I’m an expert on flavours. It was definitely rotten meat.’
‘We were sort of standing in a semi-circle,’ Sparhawk
mused, ‘and we all saw – or sensed – it right behind us. Did any of you see it behind anybody else?’
They all shook their heads.
‘Would you please explain this, Sparhawk?’ Emban said irritably.
‘In just a moment, your Grace.’ Sparhawk crossed the deck to a sailor who was splicing a loop into the bight of a rope. He spoke with the tar-smeared man for a few minutes and then returned.
‘He saw it too,’ he reported. ‘Let’s spread out and talk with the rest of the sailors on deck. I’m not being deliberately secretive, gentlemen, but let’s get what information we can from the sailors before they forget the incident entirely. I’d like to know just how widespread this visitation was.’
It was about a half hour later when they gathered again near the aft companionway, and they had all begun to exhibit a kind of excitement.
‘One of the sailors heard a kind of crackling noise – like a large fire,’ Kalten reported.
‘I talked to one fellow, and he thought there was a kind of reddish tinge to the shadow,’ Oscagne added.
‘No,’ Emban disagreed. ‘It was green. The sailor I talked with said that it was definitely green.’
‘And I spoke with a man who’d just come up on deck, and he hadn’t seen or felt a thing,’ Sparhawk added.
‘This is all very interesting, Sir Sparhawk,’ Oscagne said, ‘but could you
please
explain it to us?’
‘Kalten already knows, your Excellency,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘It would appear that we’ve just been visited by the Troll-Gods.’
‘Be careful, Sparhawk,’ Emban warned, ‘you’re walking on the edge of heresy.’
‘The Church Knights are permitted to do that, your Grace. Anyway, that shadow’s followed me before, and Ehlana’s seen it too. We’d assumed it was because we
were wearing the rings. The stones in the rings were fashioned from shards of the Bhelliom. The shadow seems to be a little less selective now.’
‘That’s all it is? Just a shadow?’ Oscagne asked him.
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘It can also show up as a very dark cloud, and everybody can see that.’
‘But not the things that are concealed in it,’ Kalten added.
‘Such as what?’ Oscagne asked.
Sparhawk gave Emban a quick sidelong glance. ‘It would start an argument, your Excellency, and we don’t really want to spend the morning in a theological debate, do we?’
‘I’m not all
that
doctrinaire, Sparhawk,’ Emban protested.
‘What would be your immediate response if I told you that humans and Trolls are related, your Grace?’
‘I’d have to investigate the condition of your soul.’
‘Then I’d probably better not tell you the truth about our cousins, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, Aphrael told us that the shadow – and later the cloud – were manifestations of the Troll-Gods.’
‘Who’s Aphrael?’ Oscagne asked.
‘We had a tutor in the Styric arts when we were novices, your Excellency,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘Aphrael is her Goddess. We thought that the cloud was somehow related to Azash, but we were wrong about that. The reddish colour and the heat that one sailor sensed was Khwaj, the God of Fire. The greenish colour and that rotten meat-smell was Ghnomb, the God of Eat.’
Kalten was frowning. ‘I thought it was just one of those things you might expect from sailors,’ he said, ‘but one fellow told me that he had some rather overpowering thoughts about women while the shadow was lurking behind him. Don’t the Trolls have a God of Mating?’
‘I think so,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Ulath would know.’
‘This is all very interesting, Sir Sparhawk,’ Oscagne said dubiously, ‘but I don’t quite see its relevance.’
‘You’ve been encountering supernatural incidents that seem to be connected to the turmoil in Tamuli, your Excellency. There’s almost exactly the same sort of disturbances cropping up in Lamorkand, and the same sort of unnatural events accompanying them. We were questioning a man who knew some things about it once, and the cloud engulfed him and killed him before he could talk. That strongly suggests some kind of connection. The shadow may have been present in Tamuli as well, but no one would have recognised it for what it really is.’
‘Zalasta was right then,’ Oscagne murmured. ‘You
are
the man for this job.’
‘The Troll-Gods are following you again, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said. ‘What is this strange fascination they seem to have with you? We can probably discount your looks – but then again, maybe not. They’re used to Trolls, after all.’
Sparhawk looked meaningfully at the ship rail. ‘How would you like to run alongside the ship for a while, Kalten?’
‘No, that’s all right, Sparhawk. I got all the exertion I need for the day when Mirtai decided to use me for a rug.’
The wind held, and the sky remained clear. They rounded the southern tip of Zemoch and sailed up the east coast in a northeasterly direction. Once, when Sparhawk and his daughter were standing in the bow, he decided to satisfy a growing curiosity.
‘How long have we actually been at sea, Danae?’ he asked her directly.
‘Five days,’ she replied.
‘It seems like two weeks or more.’
‘Thank you, father. Does that answer your question about how well 1 can manage time?’
‘We certainly haven’t eaten as much in five days as we would have in two weeks. Won’t our cooks get suspicious?’
‘Look behind us, father. Why do you suppose all those fish are gleefully jumping out of the water? And what are all those seagulls doing following us?’
‘Maybe they’re feeding.’
‘Very perceptive, Sparhawk, but what could possibly be out there for that many of them to eat? Unless, of course, somebody’s been throwing food to them off the aft deck.’
‘When do you do that?’
‘At night,’ she shrugged. ‘The fish are terribly grateful. I think they’re right on the verge of worshipping me.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve never been worshipped by fish before, and I don’t really speak their language very well. It’s mostly bubbles. Can I have a pet whale?’
‘No. You’ve already got a kitten.’
‘I’ll pout.’
‘It makes you look silly, but go ahead if you feel like it.’
‘
Why
can’t I have a whale?’
‘Because they can’t be housebroken. They don’t make good pets.’
‘That’s a ridiculous answer, Sparhawk.’
‘It was a ridiculous request, Aphrael.’
The port of Salesha at the head of the Gulf of Daconia was an ugly city that reflected the culture which had prevailed in Zemoch for nineteen hundred years. The Zemochs appeared to be confused by what had happened in their capital six years before. No matter how often they were assured that Otha and Azash were no more, they still tended to start violently at sudden loud
noises, and they generally reacted to any sort of surprise by running away.
‘I’d strongly advise that we spend the night on board our ships, your Majesty,’ Stragen advised the queen after he had made a brief survey of the accommodations available in the city. ‘I wouldn’t kennel dogs in the finest house in Salesha.’
‘That bad?’ she asked.
‘Worse, my Queen.’
And so they stayed on board and set out early the following morning.
The road they followed north was truly bad, and the carriage in which the queen and her entourage rode jolted and creaked as their column wound up into the low range of mountains lying between the coast and the town of Basne. After they had been travelling for no more than an hour, Talen rode forward. As the queen’s page, it was one of the boy’s duties to carry messages for her. Talen was not alone on his horse this time, however. Sparhawk’s daughter rode behind him, her arms about his waist and her cheek resting against his back. ‘She wants to ride with you,’ Talen told Sparhawk. ‘Your wife, Emban and the ambassador are talking politics. The princess kept yawning in their faces until the queen gave her permission to get out of the carriage.’
Sparhawk nodded. The suddenly-acquired timidity of the Zemochs made this part of the trip fairly safe. He reached over and lifted his daughter onto Faran’s back in front of his saddle. ‘I thought you liked politics,’ he said to her after Talen had returned to his post beside the carriage.
‘Oscagne’s describing the organisation of the Tamul Empire,’ she replied. ‘I already know about that. He’s not making too many mistakes.’
‘Are you going to shrink the distance from here to Basne?’
‘Unless you enjoy long, tedious journeys through boring terrain. Faran and the other horses appreciate my shortening things up a bit, don’t you Faran?’
The big roan nickered enthusiastically.
‘He’s such a nice horse,’ Danae said, leaning back against her father’s armoured chest.
‘Faran? He’s a foul-tempered brute.’
‘That’s because you expect him to be that way, father. He’s only trying to please you.’ She rapped on his armour. ‘I’m going to have to do something about this,’ she said. ‘How can you stand that awful smell?’
‘You get used to it.’ The Church Knights were all wearing full armour, and brightly-coloured pennons snapped from their lances. Sparhawk looked around to be sure no one was close enough to overhear them. ‘Aphrael,’ he said quietly, ‘can you arrange things so that I can see real time?’
‘Nobody can see time, Sparhawk.’
‘You know what I mean. I want to see what’s really going on, not the illusion you create to keep what you’re doing a secret.’
‘Why?’
‘I like to know what’s going on, that’s all.’
‘You won’t like it,’ she warned.
‘I’m a Church Knight. I’m supposed to do things I don’t like.’
‘If you insist, father.’
He was not entirely certain what he had expected – some jerky, accelerated motion, perhaps, and the voices of his friends sounding like the twittering of birds as they condensed long conversations into little bursts of unintelligible babble. That was not what happened, however. Faran’s gait became impossibly smooth. The big horse seemed almost to flow across the ground – or, more properly, the ground seemed to flow back beneath his hooves. Sparhawk swallowed hard and looked
around at his companions. Their faces seemed blank, wooden, and their eyes half-closed.
‘They’re sleeping just now,’ Aphrael explained. ‘They’re all quite comfortable. They believe that they’ve had a good supper and that the sun’s gone down. I fixed them a rather nice camp-site. Stop the horse, father. You can help me get rid of the extra food.’
‘Can’t you just make it vanish?’
‘And waste it?’ She sounded shocked. ‘The birds and animals have to eat too, you know.’
‘How long is it really going to take us to reach Basne?’
‘Two days. We could go faster if there was an emergency, but there’s nothing quite that serious going on just now.’
Sparhawk reined in, and he followed his little daughter back to where the pack animals stood patiently. ‘You’re keeping all of this in your head at the same time?’ he asked her.
‘It’s not that difficult, Sparhawk. You just have to pay attention to details, that’s all.’
‘You sound like Kurik.’
‘He’d have made an excellent God, actually. Attention to detail is the most important lesson we learn. Put that beef shoulder over near that tree with the broken-off top. There’s a bear-cub back in the bushes who got separated from his mother. He’s very hungry.’
‘Do you keep track of every single thing that’s happening around you?’
‘Well
somebody
has to, Sparhawk.’
The Zemoch town of Basne lay in a pleasant valley where the main east-west road forded a small, sparkling river. It was a fairly important trading centre. Not even Azash had been able to curb the natural human instinct to do business. There was an encampment just outside of town.
Sparhawk had dropped back to return Princess Danae to her mother, and he was riding beside the carriage as they started down into the valley.
Mirtai seemed uncharacteristically nervous as the carriage moved down toward the encampment.
‘It appears that your admirer has obeyed your summons, Mirtai,’ Baroness Melidere observed brightly.
‘Of course,’ the giantess replied.
‘It must be enormously satisfying to have such absolute control over a man.’
‘I rather like it,’ Mirtai admitted. ‘How do I look? Be honest, Melidere. I haven’t seen Kring for months, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.’
‘You’re lovely, Mirtai.’
‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘Of course not.’
‘What do you think, Ehlana?’ the Tamul woman appealed to her owner. Her tone was a bit uncertain.
‘You’re ravishing, Mirtai.’
‘I’ll know better when I see his face.’ Mirtai paused. ‘Maybe I
should
marry him,’ she said. ‘I think I’d feel much more secure if I had my brand on him.’ She rose, opening the carriage door and leaning out to pull her tethered horse up from behind the carriage and then quite literally flowed onto his back. Mirtai never used a saddle. ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘I guess I’d better go down there and find out if he still loves me.’ And she tapped her heels into her horse’s flanks and galloped on down into the valley to meet the waiting Domi.
The Peloi were nomadic herders from the marches of eastern Pelosia. They were superb horsemen and savage warriors. They spoke a somewhat archaic form of Elenic, and many of the words in their tongue had fallen out of use in the modern language. Among those words was ‘Domi’, a word filled with profoundest respect. It meant ‘Chief’ – sort of – although, as Sir Ulath had once said, it lost a great deal in translation.
The current Domi of the Peloi was named Kring. Kring was a lean man of slightly more than medium height. As was customary among the men of his people, he shaved his head, and there were savage-looking sabre scars on his scalp and face, an indication that the process of rising to a position of leadership among the Peloi involved a certain amount of rough-and-tumble competition. He wore black leather clothing, and a lifetime spent on horseback had made him bandy-legged. He was a fiercely loyal friend, and he had worshipped Mirtai from the moment he had first seen her. Mirtai did not discourage him, although she refused to commit herself. They made an odd-looking couple, since the Atan woman towered more than a foot over her ardent suitor.
Peloi hospitality was generous, and the business of ‘taking salt together’ usually involved enormous amounts of roasted meat, during the consumption of which the men ‘spoke of affairs’, a phrase with many implications, ranging in subject matter from the weather to formal declarations of war.
After they had eaten, Kring described what he had
observed during the ride of the hundred Peloi across Zemoch. ‘It never really was a kingdom, friend Sparhawk,’ he said. ‘Not the way we understand the word. There are too many different kinds of people living in Zemoch for them all to come together under one roof. The only thing that kept them united was their fear of Otha and Azash. Now that their emperor and their God aren’t there any more, the Zemochs are just kind of drifting apart. There’s not any sort of war or anything like that. It’s just that they don’t stay in touch with each other any more. They all have their own concerns, so they don’t really have any reason to talk to each other.’
‘Is there any kind of government at all?’ Tynian asked the shaved-headed Domi.
‘There’s a sort of a framework, friend Tynian,’ Kring replied. They were sitting in a large, open pavilion in the centre of the Peloi encampment feasting on roast ox. The sun was just going down and the shadows of the peaks lying to the west lay long across the pleasant valley. There were lights in the windows of Basne a half mile or so away. ‘The departments of Otha’s government have all moved to Gana Dorit,’ Kring elaborated. ‘Nobody will even go near the city of Zemoch any more. The bureaucrats in Gana Dorit spend their time writing directives, but their messengers usually just stop in the nearest village, tear up the directives, wait a suitable period of time, and then go back and tell their employers that all is going well. The bureaucrats are happy, the messengers don’t have to travel very far, and the people go on about their business. Actually, it’s not a bad form of government.’
‘And their religion?’ Sir Bevier asked intently. Bevier was a devout young knight, and he spent a great deal of his time talking and thinking about God. His companions liked him in spite of that.
‘They don’t speak very much about their beliefs,
friend Bevier,’ Kring replied. ‘It was their religion that got them into trouble in the first place, so they’re a bit shy about discussing the matter openly. They grow their crops, tend their sheep and goats and let the Gods settle their own disputes. They’re not a threat to anybody any more.’
‘Except for the fact that a disintegrated nation is an open invitation to anyone nearby with anything even remotely resembling an army,’ Ambassador Oscagne added.
‘Why would anyone want to bother, your Excellency?’ Stragen asked him. ‘There’s nothing in Zemoch of any value. The thieves there have to get honest jobs in order to make ends meet. Otha’s gold appears to have been an illusion. It all vanished when Azash died.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘And you have no idea of how chagrined any number of people who’d supported the Primate of Cimmura were when that happened.’
Something rather peculiar happened to Kring’s face. The savage horseman whose very name struck fear into the hearts of his neighbours went first pale, then bright red. Mirtai had emerged from the women’s pavilion to which Peloi custom had relegated her and the others. Strangely, Queen Ehlana had not even objected, a fact which caused Sparhawk a certain nervousness. Mirtai had taken advantage of the accommodations within the pavilion to make herself ‘presentable’. Kring, quite obviously, was impressed. ‘You’ll excuse me,’ he said, rising quickly and moving directly toward the lode-star of his life.
‘I think we’re in the presence of a legend in the making,’ Tynian noted. ‘The Peloi will compose songs about Kring and Mirtai for the next hundred years at least.’ He looked at the Tamul ambassador. ‘Is Mirtai behaving at all the way other Atan women do, your Excellency? She obviously likes Kring’s attentions, but she simply won’t give him a definite answer.’
‘The Atana’s doing what’s customary, Sir Tynian,’ Oscagne replied. ‘Atan women believe in long, leisurely courtships. They find being pursued entertaining, and most men turn their attention to other matters after the wedding. For this period of time in her life, she knows that she’s the absolute centre of the Domi’s attention. Women, I’m told, appreciate that sort of thing.’
‘She wouldn’t just be leading him on, would she?’ Berit asked. ‘I like the Domi, and I’d hate to see him get his heart broken.’
‘Oh, no, Sir Berit. She’s definitely interested. If she found his attentions annoying, she’d have killed him a long time ago.’
‘Courtship among the Atans must be a very nervous business,’ Kalten observed.
‘Oh, yes,’ Oscagne laughed. ‘A man must be very careful. If he’s too aggressive, the woman will kill him, and if he’s not aggressive enough, she’ll marry someone else.’
‘That’s very uncivilised,’ Kalten said disapprovingly.
‘Atan women seem to enjoy it, but then, women are more elemental than we are.’
They left Basne early the following morning and rode eastward toward Esos on the border between Zemoch and the kingdom of Astel. It was a peculiar journey for Sparhawk. It took three days, he was absolutely certain of that. He could clearly remember every minute of those three days and every mile they travelled. And yet his daughter periodically roused him when he was firmly convinced that he was sleeping in a tent, and he would be startled to find that he was dozing on Faran’s back instead and that the position of the sun clearly indicated that what had appeared to be a full day’s travel had taken less than six hours. Princess Danae woke her father for a very practical reason during what was in
reality no more than a one-day ride. The addition of the Peloi had greatly increased the amount of stores that had to be carefully depleted each ‘night’, and Danae made her father help her dispose of the excess.
‘What did you do with all the supplies when we were travelling with Wargun’s army?’ Sparhawk asked her on the second ‘night’ which actually consumed about a half hour during the early afternoon of that endless day.
‘I did it the other way,’ she shrugged.
‘Other way?’
‘I just made the excess go away.’
‘Couldn’t you do that this time too?’
‘Of course, but then I couldn’t leave it for the animals. Besides, this gives you and me the chance to talk when nobody’s around to hear us. Pour that sack of grain under those bushes, Sparhawk. There’s a covey of quail back in the grass. They haven’t been eating very well lately, and the chicks are growing very fast right now.’
‘Was there something you wanted to talk about?’ he asked her, slitting open the grain sack with his dagger.
‘Nothing special,’ she said. ‘I just like talking with you, and you’re usually too busy.’
‘And this gives you a chance to show off too, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does, yes. It’s not all that much fun being a Goddess if you can’t show off just a little bit now and then.’
‘I love you,’ he laughed.
‘Oh, that’s
very
nice, Sparhawk!’ she exclaimed happily. ‘Right from the heart and without even thinking about it. Would you like to have me turn the grass lavender for you – just to show my appreciation.’
‘I’ll settle for a kiss. Lavender grass might confuse the horses.’
They reached Esos that evening. The Child Goddess so perfectly melded real and apparent time that they fitted together seamlessly. Sparhawk was a Church Knight, and he had been trained in the use of magic, but his imagination shuddered back from the kind of power possessed by this whimsical little divinity who, she had announced during the confrontation with Azash in the City of Zemoch, had willed herself into existence, and who had decided independently to be reborn as his daughter.
They set up for the night some distance from town, and after they had eaten, Talen and Stragen took Sparhawk aside. ‘What’s your feeling about a bit of reconnoitring?’ Stragen asked the big Pandion.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Esos is a fair-sized town,’ the blond Thalesian replied, ‘and there’s sure to be a certain amount of organisation among the thieves there. I thought the three of us might be able to pick up some useful information by getting in touch with their leader.’
‘Would he know you?’
‘I doubt it. Emsat’s a long way away from here.’
‘What makes you think he’d want to talk with you?’
‘Courtesy, Sparhawk. Thieves and murderers are exquisitely courteous to each other. It’s healthier that way.’
‘If he doesn’t know who you are, how will he know that he’s supposed to be courteous toward you?’
‘There are certain signals he’ll recognise.’
‘You people have a very complex society, don’t you?’
‘All societies are complex, Sparhawk. It’s one of the burdens of civilisation.’
‘Someday you’ll have to teach me these signals.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re not a thief. It’s another of those complexities we were talking about. The point of all of this is that all we have to work with is the ambassador’s rather generalised notion of what’s going on. I think I’d like something a bit more specific, wouldn’t you?’
‘That I would, my friend.’
‘Why don’t we drift on into Esos and see what we can find out then?’
‘Why don’t we?’
The three of them changed into nondescript clothing and rode away from the encampment, circling around to the west to approach the town from that direction.
As they approached, Talen looked critically at the fortifications and the unguarded gate. ‘They seem a little relaxed when you consider how close they are to the Zemoch border,’ he observed.
‘Zemoch doesn’t pose much of a threat any more,’ Stragen disagreed.
‘Old customs die hard, Milord Stragen, and it hasn’t been all
that
long since Otha was frothing at the frontier with Azash standing right behind him.’
‘I doubt that these people found Azash to be all that impressive,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Otha’s God didn’t have any reason to come this way. He was looking west, because that’s where Bhelliom was.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Talen conceded.
Esos was not a very large town, perhaps about the size of the city of Lenda in central Elenia. There was a kind of archaic quality about it, though, since there had been a town on this spot since the dawn of time. The cobbled streets were narrow and crooked, and they wandered this way and that without any particular reason.
‘How are we going to find the part of town where your colleagues stay?’ Sparhawk asked Stragen. ‘We can’t just walk up to some burgher and ask him where we’ll find the thieves, can we?’
‘We’ll take care of it,’ Stragen smiled. ‘Talen, go ask some pickpocket where the thieves’ den is around here.’
‘Right,’ Talen grinned, slipping down from his horse.
‘That could take him all night,’ Sparhawk said.
‘Not unless he’s been struck blind,’ Stragen replied as the boy moved off into a crowded byway. ‘I’ve seen six pickpockets since we came into town, and I wasn’t even looking very hard.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Their technique’s a little different here. It probably has to do with the narrow streets.’
‘What would that have to do with it?’
‘People jostle each other in tight quarters,’ Stragen shrugged. ‘A pickpocket in Emsat or Cimmura could never get away with bumping into a client the way they do here. It’s more efficient, I’ll grant you, but it establishes bad work-habits.’
Talen returned after a few minutes. ‘It’s down by the river,’ he reported.
‘Inevitably,’ Stragen said. ‘Something seems to draw thieves to rivers. I’ve never been able to figure out why.’
Talen shrugged. ‘It’s probably so that we can swim for it in case things go wrong. We’d better walk. Mounted men attract too much attention. There’s a stable down at the end of the street where we can leave the horses.’
They spoke briefly with the surly stableman and then proceeded on foot.
The thieves’ den in Esos was in a shabby tavern at the rear of a narrow cul-de-sac. A crude sign depicting a bunch of grapes hung from a rusty hook just over the door, and a pair of burly loafers sprawled on the doorstep drinking ale from battered tankards.
‘We’re looking for a man named Djukta,’ Talen told them.
‘What was it about?’ one of the loafers growled suspiciously.
‘Business,’ Stragen told him in a cold tone.
‘Anybody could say that,’ the unshaven man said, rising to his feet with a thick cudgel in his hand.
‘This is always so tedious,’ Stragen sighed to Sparhawk. Then his hand flashed to the hilt of his rapier, and the slim blade came whistling out of its sheath. ‘Friend,’ he said to the loafer, ‘unless you want three feet of steel between your breakfast and your supper, you’ll stand aside.’ The needle-like point of the rapier touched the man’s belly suggestively.
The other ruffian sidled off to one side, his hand reaching furtively toward the handle of his dagger.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Sparhawk warned him in a dreadfully quiet voice. He pushed his cloak aside to reveal his mail-shirt and the hilt of his broadsword. ‘I’m not entirely positive where your breakfast or your supper are located just now, neighbour, but I’ll probably be able to pick them out when your guts are lying in the street.’