Crokus dragged a chair to the table, dropped into it and reached for the wine. “We’re tired of waiting,” he pronounced. “If we have to cross this damned land, then let’s do it. There’s a steaming pile of rubbish behind the garden wall, clogging up the sewage gutter. Crawling with rats. The air’s hot and so thick with flies you can barely breathe. We’ll catch a plague if we stay here much longer.” “Let’s hope it’s the bluetongue, then,” Kalam said. “What’s that?” “Your tongue swells up and turns blue,” Fiddler explained. “What’s so good about that?” “You can’t talk.”
