57



You shiver in the shadows. Westfenster is more fortress than palace, apparently, with walls as thick as the James River is wide. After crossing the draw-gate, your caravan clatters through a stony tunnel that takes an age to traverse.

"Ooh ooh," Brute hoots, the echo making it sound like a whole shrewdness of apes, not a single specimen.

"This way, alongside there," you hear a stern voice call from the sunlit opening ahead as your party enters the courtyard, one cart at a time.

"Better listen, there," you murmur to the wagoner pulling your cart. "Make a wrong turn and we'll be liable to drop into the moat."

He grins over his shoulder at you. You daresay he's enjoyed hauling your bones about for the past four days. Having the witty fool in his cart has lifted his prestige amongst the drivers.

Onward