“ing look on his face.

    “I don’t know,” replied Sabriel.

    “?”

    “I don’t kno four. I t’s supposed to be a secret.

    Fat just among tty necromancers, Free Magic sorcerers, ches—”

    “You don’t seem disturbed by your lack of directions,” interrupted t time, a  of doubt, even fat into  due to er Mage and necromancer.

    “Fataugo o call a guide wions,” replied Sabriel coolly.

    “And I kno’s less travel away.”

    t silenced  least for t.

    anding cautiously, so   t, o a steel filing cabinet t ing from t oozed betment.

    Opening t iced  out on table.

    “e’ve never been able to get our  —it just looked like a square of calfskin to me. A small magic,  since  teac, per so small . . .

    Anyest version of our patrol map, so it only goes out about ten miles from t. tanding orders strictly forbid us to go further.

    Patrols tend not to come back beyond t distance.

    Maybe t, or maybe . . .”

    one of voice suggested t even nastier to trols, but Sabriel didn’t question ion of t on table and, once again, excitement stirred up hin her.

    “e generally go out along tracing it  sandpapering of a master craftsman. “trols s or sout, till t the all.

    t back to te.”

    “ does ting to a blacked-in square atop one of ther hills.

    “t’s a Cer Stone,” replied the Colonel.

    “Or part of one no ruck by ligrols arted to call it Cloven Crest, and t if possible. Its true name is Barone once carried ter