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The Questions

Ferahgo lay stretched upon the rock. An old cloak that belonged to him had been soaked in seawater by Sickear and thrown over him to heal his scalded back. He sprawled flat on his stomach, feigning sleep, watching the shoreline through half-open eyes. The Assassin was expecting an attempt upon his life, whether from Klitch or some other source he knew not, but he was certain of one thing: injured leaders were a good target for the rebellious. When his penetrating stare caught the telltale movements far out among the rocks of the shore, he called Sickear to him. The rat was weary after nursing Ferahgo all day, he lolloped across and thrae a desultory salute. "Yes, Master? Can I be of service?" Ferahgo rose slowly, shaking his head. "No, Sickear, you've done enough for one day. You look tired." Expecting a reprimand, the rat came to attention. "No, Master, I'm fresh as a daisy. It's my duty to get you well." The Assassin ruffled the rat's ears good-naturedly. "and a splendid job you've done of it, Sickear. My own mother counld'nt have nursed me better. Listen, I'm just going to see what that son of mine is up to. You can have a rest of the night off. Come here, lie down on this rock. It's flat and smooth. Come on now, I won't take no for an answer."