Lovejoy studied Carrock in silence for a long moment. His friend’s shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his people’s stares, though most had already turned away, muttering darkly to themselves. The guard at the gate shifted uncomfortable, hand twitching near their hilts, but no one had drawn steel against the brigands.

So we were marooned at Bax Garâkh for almost two weeks. Not that it was a terrible event, save for those who had other work to be about. Save for me, save for Farrin possibly, for he was the only surviving injured crewmember, having a broken leg. We had no healer on board, but such a problem was straightforward. Some of the crew had enough experience to straighten and set the break, and we had enough khôrob to stifle the screams.

The sun was sinking low as Sharpe trudged back towards Bree, his boots heavy on the dusty road between Combe and Staddle. He’d spent the afternoon at the Combe and Wattle Inn, tankard in hand swapping tales with whoever cared to listen. His head still swam with ale, but his stride was steady enough to make his way up the lane as the evening deepened into dusk.

Cinnín Óir agus na Trí Bhéar 
("Goldilocks and the Three Bears")