Mogget led on his back.

    “I am accurate, not rude,” urning o tudied scorn. “And .”

    “I’m sick of toucone,  kno I don’t?”

    toucone , knuckles iller, eyes focused on tant owers of Belisaere.

    “You’ll o tell me eventually,” said Sabriel, a touc entering her voice.

    “It can’t be t bad, surely?”

    toucone  ated, then spoke.

    “It upidity on my part, not evil, milady.

    t I am partly responsible for the royal line.”

    “!” exclaimed Sabriel. “how could you be?”

    “I am,” continued toucone miserably, iller moved, giving t a crazy zigzag here was a . . .

    t is . . .”

    ook a deep breat up a little straiginued, as if reporting to a senior officer.

    “I don’t kno involves t Cers. art? it son, Rogir, . I  into terests. No terests must ed it t ive, and often away.

    “to  before ter Festival. I o see o be more like  interest in ties t tracted  more time together again; hawking, riding, drinking, dancing.

    “te one afternoon—one cold, crisp afternoon, near sunset—I y, guarding to o come o t Stones are . . . !”

    “Yes,” interrupted Mogget. ired, like an alley cat t oo many. “time.

    e can speak of t Cers, at least for a little  was so.”

    “Go on,” said Sabriel, excitedly. “Let’s take advantage of it ones ones and mortar of t Cer?”

    “Yes,” replied toucone, remotely, as if reciting a lesson, “ever t Cers, put tions: t Stones. All tones draher.

    “t Stones . . . Rogir came and said  t lo