Lark O'Day grunted. "He'd have one hell of a time recognizing us dressed—or undressed—like this."
He scowled disdainfully at the crude peon garb with which his sturdy frame was draped; clothing which consisted of little more than worn sandals, a twisted, filthy rag about his loins, and a loose, sacklike halter draped from his shoulders.
Gary admitted ruefully, "We aren't exactly candidates for a sartorial award. But this is the best disguise we could possibly effect. The Magogean kraedars spurn their slaves like dust beneath their feet. Even if we were to meet Borisu, he would look past or through us and never notice our faces. And that's what we want."
"It's damn hard on the girls, though," grunted O'Day. "The least the blue boys could have done was given us a lighter cart. One we three could handle by ourselves, without them having to act as dray horses, too. Ease up there, Penny. Don't ruin those pretty hands."
Kang's daughter glanced at him sidewise and smiled. She said in a soft, liquid voice, "Do not worry about us, Lark. It were better Nora and I ruined our soft hands on this cart than that your fighting hands should not be ready when the moment comes. Is it not so, Nora?"
Nora, tugging beside her at the draw-tongue of the cumbersome vehicle which comprised part of the typical impedimenta of lower class Magogean nomads, smiled agreement.
"Much better. Though I confess I don't envy those whose rôles we are playing. I wouldn't like to do this all the time."
"I don't believe," said Kang in a low voice, "you are going to have to do it much longer. For see? Before us? A city on the river's edge, and armed soldiers watching our approach. You know our story?"
"Yes."
"Good! Remember it well. We must make no mistake."