As the old man they called Gaatoo leaned forward and opened his bag he again said, “Even Kings.”

Pock sat on a stump he had dragged closer to the cart.  The keg of mead was comfortably within reach of his clay mug.  Pock was partial to clay with mead.  He claimed that metal drinking challises gave off a peculiar taste.  Reda cared neither one way nor the other but was fond of the dark silver goblet known to him since his childhood as that of the Prince’s brother.

“Even Kings! You say. Please go on,” urged Reda.

The lanky old man, all knees and elbows in his garb of deer skins and red cloaks from exotic places, barked out “Even...

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