The flags were uniformly arranged in blue and white hexagons. Tyfar stopped and stared at the tables beneath the bright umbrellas outside a tavern with the promising name of The Bottle and Morrow. “Ronalines,” he said, and smacked his lips. “I have a penchant for them — and with thick, clotted cream.” I sighed. People in clean and colorful clothes sitting at the tables were spooning up the ronalines smothered in thick cream. Ronalines are very much your Kregan strawberry, and highly tasty, too. Tyfar strode across and started opening his scrip ready to dole out money. Deb-Lu-Quienyin suddenly appeared at my elbow. A wash of coldness shriveled in the heat of the day. “Jak — our two comrades. They are lodged in a hayloft in Blue Vosk Street. Barkindrar is injured.” I could see right through Quienyin. One or two people at the tables were beginning to look more closely toward me.
