Chapter seventeen
Of Havilfar, volleem — and stuxes“You are a get-onker, Dray Prescot! You’re a fool, you nulsh! I wouldn’t go back to Yaman for all the ivory in Chem!”
So spoke Mog, the Migla witch, as we flew out over the sea from the manhunters’ island of Faol.
This voller was a larger and more handsome craft than that in which I had escaped before, and in the comfortable cabin aft Turko could lie on a settee and drink the wine we found aboard and make sarcastic remarks about Mog. The girls had recovered, and chattered about what stories they would tell at all the marvelous parties to which they would be invited on the strength of their marvelous adventures.
When they heard Mog shriek at me that she would never set foot in her city of Yaman again, the girls looked up.
“We are agree
