The Tyr-storm hits them in the open.
Pavek is riding under the bone cargo rack on the soldier-kank when Ruari jabs him awake with his staff. Pavek grabs the wood, rams the other end into Ruari’s gut, and throws the staff away. “Do that again, half-wit, and you’ll need a crutch, not a staff.”
Living with Zvain is a special kind of torture.
Every morning starts the same way. Pavek is trying to sleep, and Zvain is running his mouth. “What’s it going to be today, Pavek? Some more groveling and toe-kissing at the west gate?” The kid has perfected the art of the early morning insult. He calls Pavek a belly-crawler, a yellow-lover, a dust-licker. He questions his manhood, his courage, his pride. All before breakfast.