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Broken stoneware pots, sundry rodent skeletons, rusty
weapons in various states of ill-repair, dozens of candles
burned to an inch, bent utensils, one half of a hand-held fire
bellows, a canoe filled with holes, a stringless lute, and a
dwarf-high pile of unmatched shoes and boots rounded out
the adornments.
Reclining on the big, soft bed of burlap-covered moss,
Flint picked at his teeth absently with a splinter of wood. He
chuckled at Perian's discomfiture. "I've slept in worse."
He watched her flit about the room apprehensively, virtu-
ally tearing off the whites of her nails. "Can't you relax for
one moment?" he asked, putting down his toothpick. "I'll
admit the accommodations aren't the best, but they're only
temporary. Not ten minutes ago I was carrying you and
limping for our lives from - well, you know what from. At
least we're safe until I can get someone to show us the way
out of here."
The first thing Flint intended to do after that was to let his
nephew, whom he'd left waiting outside Thorbardin, know
he was all right. Basalt would be plenty worried by now
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