Whether the story was true or not, they had indubitably taken knives from Master Jezbellandur the Iarvin. Ergo — those knives must be paid for. From each member of the group was, therefore, scrupulously removed the price of one knife. Seg almost laughed. “This has to mean our story is believed,” declared Khardun. He gave his whiskers the first proper tweaking they had received in too long a time. “We shall soon be free.” “Before that we should escape,” growled the Dorvenhork in his Chulik way. “By Likshu the Treacherous! Let us break a few skulls and make off.” “I am with you, Dorvenhork,” quoth Rafikhan. “Oh, and I, of course,” said Khardun in his offhand Khibil manner. “Naturally.” They were immured in the dungeons of the Langarl Paraido. The iron bars here were measurably thicker than those of the sinkhole in Mewsansmot. Also, they had a nice interesting habit here of sending condemned prisoners for their final swim wrapped in nets so that something could be hauled back and, if the head happened to be among the bits and pieces salvaged, then the heads of prisoners finished off by swimming could be impaled and exhibited along the city walls.
