Boghaz recovered himself with magnificent aplomb. He bowed deeply to the leader of the press-gang, a huge black-bearded, hawk-nosed man wearing the same black mail that Carse had seen on the Sark soldiers in the square.
“My lord Scyld!” said Boghaz. “I regret that I am corpulent, and therefore slow of motion. I would not for worlds have given your lordship the trouble of breaking my poor door, especially”—his face beamed with the light of pure innocence—“especially as I was about to set out in search of you.”
He gestured toward Carse.
“I have him for you, you see,” he said. “I have him safe.”
Scyld set his fists on his hips, thrust his spade beard up into the air and laughed. Behind him the soldiers of the press-gang took it up and, behind them, the rabble of Jekkarans who had come to see the fun.
“He has him safe,” said Scyld, “for us.”
More laughter.
Scyld stepped closer to Boghaz. “I suppose,” he said, “that it was your loyalty that prompted you to spirit this Khond dog away from my men in the first place.”
“My lord,” protested Boghaz, “the mob would have killed him.”
“That’s why my men went in—we wanted him alive. A dead Khond is of no use to us. But you had to be helpful, Boghaz. Fortunately you were seen.” He reached out and fingered the stolen ornaments that Boghaz wore around his neck. “Yes,” said Scyld, “very fortunately.”