“Cramph!” roared Obolya. “You have a mouth wider than the Cyphren Sea! I must fill it — with my fist!”
“May Pandrite aid you now, Dray Prescot!” said Pando, overwhelmed by what had happened. He had known me long enough to know I would not shrug off an insult; but also he had seen me only as a weak and ill man, lucky to be employed by the overseer Naghan on the personal request of Tilda of the Many Veils. Pando sucked in his cheeks, and his eyes grew very round.
“Crawl back into the hairs of a calsany’s belly where you belong,” I said to Obolya.
He stuttered. The black bristles on his cheeks and chin quivered. He pointed at me, and threw back his head, and roared his contempt.
“You! Cramph-begotten rast! You who carry the leavings of a blacksmith’s shop upon your back!”
This was a refe
