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she had always had clothes, of some sort or another, rags mostly until the last chamber of the Coup Blag, to cover her. The suns would give you a wonderful tan if you stayed out for a responsible length of time.
    Well, when the time was opportune he’d mention it to her. Her answer would probably involve carefree days of sunbathing at home. Her home, he gathered, was situated not in the capital of this land of Croxdrin but, as she had indicated, farther north out in the open plains in Mewsansmot.
    There was no chance of conversation as they walked along the monster-opened trail so that much as he would have liked to find out more about her and her history, as any wandering fellow lusted after details of people and places and things, Seg was constrained to follow his own dictum of patience.
    He had the map of the area fairly well embedded in his skull. The river, known as the River of Bloody Jaws, looped in an enormous arc around the Snarly Hills. Traffic went by river. The teeth and jaws ferociously at work in the Kazzchun River were not as fearful as the terrors of the forest.
    From where they now were any direction other than a heading with west in it would bring them to the river.
    North with a touch of easting, he decided, would be best. If the distance to the river was the same no matter in which direction they went, then by going north the distance to cover on the river would be shortened. When they stopped for one of the periodic rests he insisted on, mindful of the husbanding of marching men’s — and women’s! — strengths, Milsi began prying in order to open up a little more of the story of this fearsome warrior bowman.
    “For a start, Seg, how did you come by your cognomen?”
    At that Seg laughed out loud.
    “Horkandur?” He was clearly delighted by his own thoughts. Milsi smiled in response. She enjoyed being with Seg, and for this space of time at least forgot her own problems in their shared perils.
    “I know it means you have gained renown as a great archer—”
    “In that, the sobriquet does not lie overmuch, although I detest braggarts. No, my old dom, he whom you know as the Bogandur, gave it to me, when I gave him his nickname. This was when we met up with the expedition at The Dragon’s Roost—”
    She showed her astonishment.
    “But that defies honor! You give each other resounding titles, just like that? Really, Seg, you amaze me.”
    “We did not wish to give our true names.”
    “On the run?”
    Again he laughed.
    “In a fashion; but not from any just pursuit. We felt it more prudent. My name is Seg Segutorio.”
    Very gravely she inclined her head, and said: “Lahal, Seg Segutorio.”
    “Lahal, my Lady Milsi. And the rest of your name?”
    Her smile faltered.
    A flutter seized her, so that she looked up, and exclaimed at the sight of two bright red eyes staring down at them from a branch of a nearby tree. Seg looked and saw the little furry body, the tail wrapped about a thinner twig, and said: “Another little colo. Perhaps we will have to eat his cousin tonight. For now, he is safe.”
    The pathetic interlude gave her time to decide what to say.
    “My father’s name was Javed Erithor the Good. My mother’s name was Natema Parlaix. I may use either name, as I wish.”
     
    “I know of the custom. In Erthyrdrin we have a different system of naming of names. I was able to assume the honor of the torio when my father died. He, too, was a good man, if a trifle reckless—”
    “Like his son?”
    “Oh, aye. But I learn. When I die my son, my eldest son, Drayseg, will become Seg Segutorio.”
    She felt a distinct stab at her heart.
    “You have children? You are married?”
    Seg’s face abruptly took on the look of a sky at nightfall, before a thunderstorm. She did not flinch back; had she done so no one watching would have been surprised.
    “I am blessed with a family of three, and, yes, I was married.”
    “Oh — I am sorry.”
    “I will tell you. But we have rested enough.