Chapter seventeen
Cash for Lash?It was all our own fault. Well, it was really Pompino’s fault. That fiery Khibil turned into a real tearaway when he sensed his honor was imputed. But, then, no. No. Really it was my fault. As usual. I ought to have tripped Pompino up as he roared out of the tavern after Quendur while we sized up the situation.
As it was — here we were.
In chains.
No novelty for me, for that intemperate Dray Prescot who ran headlong and foolishly into danger. But for Pompino the harsh iron chains galled with much more than mere physical restraint. His honor was affronted. He felt degraded.
The occupant of the carrying chair, one Pamcur Ovin, a notable merchant and slave dealer, had been the business Quendur had occupied himself with. Pamcur Ovin had received a thorough
