"Don't have technology," Blahrog growled, stumping grimly along. "The Everking has a car, but he doesn't use it much. No fuel."
As he walked, Andy composed a speech on the merits of the tourist business, to be delivered to the Everking.
Miss Featherpenny grew visibly more depressed with each mile. She uttered an involuntary cry when the guard of the city gate appeared with a slender mug in each hand.
"Felician ladies don't drink," Blahrog said gruffly.
"I can fetch you a glass of water," the guard offered, without enthusiasm.
"Thank you," said Miss Featherpenny, with an attempt at sincerity.
The contents of his mug made Andy choke. "Tastes something like cider," he gasped.
Blahrog downed his without a wink. "It's customary to give a guest a mug of Throatduster as a sign of gratitude because he walked so far in the dust."
"In this dust," Miss Featherpenny murmured to her second glass of water, "any distance is far."
"Thoughtful custom," Andy said quickly. "Could you export the beverage?"