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and down in delight, roaring with laughter at the escapades of the infamous pair. Horty and his friends, Springald and Fenna, laughed, too.
    Toran put on a stern face, wagging a cautionary paw at hislisteners. “I tell ye, ’twasn’t so funny for the poor creatures who were the butt o’ those tricks!”
    Horty scoffed. “Oh I say, sah, you don’t actually believe all that dreadful twaddle about Bragoon an’ Saro, wot?”
    Abbot Carrul answered him. “Toran’s right, ’tis all true. I was a young ’un here myself at the time, I saw it!”
    Fenna fluttered her long eyelashes prettily. “Oh really, Father Abbot, you don’t expect us to believe all that about Bragoon and Saro. We’re not Dibbuns anymore. Toran makes up the stories to amuse the little ones—they’ll believe anything, but we know better.”
    Martha spoke out sharply. “If the Abbot and Toran say it is true, then I’m certain it is. What reason would we have to doubt them?”
    Her words, however, went unheeded by the three young ’uns, as they strolled off together, still unwilling to credit the existence of the fabled duo.
    Horty scoffed again. “Bragoon an’ Saro, wot? Load of jolly old codswallop, if y’ask me. Tchah!”
    Springald giggled. “If I swallowed that lot, I’d be looking out for fishes nesting in trees and flying!”
    Martha was so angry that she almost rose from the rug, but then she fell back again.
    Abbot Carrul helped her to sit up. “Don’t upset yourself, Martha. One day our young friends will wake up and find themselves somewhat older and a little wiser, just wait and see. I was a bit like them at that age, but one lives and learns.”
    The young haremaid sighed. “I hope it happens to my brother soon. I don’t like to say this, Father, but Horty seems to behave more outrageously each day.”
    Toran helped Martha into her chair. “Don’t ye worry. Horty’s a hare, they’re always a bit wild when they’re young.”
    Martha retrieved her volume and straightened her rug. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Toran, but I’m a hare, too!”
    Sister Portula dusted a stray flower petal from Martha’s head. “Ah, but you’re a very rare and special kind of hare, my dear. Anybeast can see that!”
    Â 
    Hostile weather still reigned on the plains and heathlands of the far east. Raga Bol and his Searats had not made much headway in three days of trekking westward—the Searat captain’s pawstump pained abominably. They camped on high ground, in the lee of a rocky projection. Apart from a few chosen cronies, the crew avoided the captain, making their own fire sufficiently far away to evade his sudden wrath.
    Raga Bol sat by his own fire, with Glimbo and Blowfly in attendance. The two runners had been sent out to retrieve the badger’s head but had returned empty-pawed. They crouched at the far side of the blaze, panting from their long journey. Raga Bol watched reflecting flames glinting from the polished silver hook where his paw had once been. His luminous eyes shifted to the runners.
    â€œAre ye certain ’twas the spot where I slew the giant stripedog?”
    Both heads nodded. “Certain shore, Cap’n!”
    â€œI’d swear me oath on it, Cap’n Bol. The stripedog was gone, there was no sign of ’im anywhere’s about!”
    The Searat captain’s terrifying stare never left either of the two quivering vermin. “But the old one, he was buried there?”
    â€œAye, Cap’n, right on the spot where ye slew the big ’un.”
    â€œHe’s right, Cap’n, the very spot. All the tracks were wiped out, too. Wasn’t nothin’ we could do but come back ’ere, fast as we could, to tell ye!”
    Raga Bol dropped his gaze to the steaming ground at the fire’s edge. “Speak to none about this,