“I agree. We are in Hamal, I think.”
He shook his head as we began on the axle. The lady made no offer to get out of the coach, and the Rapas gathered themselves to help.
“No. I am not sure; but not Hamal.”
Well, I thought, if you’re right, dom, thank Vox for that.
The Rapa called Onron scowled. “Hamal? You are from Hamal?” His fist gripped his sword, a thraxter, and he half-drew.
“No, Knave,” snapped Pompino. “We are not from Hamal.”
“The Hamalese,” quoth the Rapa, “should be tied up in their own guts and left to rot, by Rhapaporgolam the Reiver of Souls!”
“Quidang to that,” said Pompino.
A soft clump of hoofs drew our attention as a party of men riding totrixes rode up. There were ten of them and their six-legged mounts were lathered. Their weapons glittered in their hands, apim
