Chapter eleven“Hey! You, Drajak! Get your watch on parade. Immediately! Bratch!”
The fellow who stuck his head through the open door of our guardhouse the next morning and started shouting was Quensella’s major-domo. His easy life had made him fat and soft. He wanted people to call him Tral the Strict. Behind his back they called him by a much more expressive name. He had not really bothered me — until now.
The boys sitting in the guardroom cleaning and polishing their equipment stopped work and looked on silently.
As you can probably imagine, owing to the bad luck that seemed to follow me lately and the problems that were like a millstone around my neck, I was still in the same ungracious mood as in the dusty, sneezy secret passage. This pompous, fat, sweaty little onker was the final
