At the side of Old Maskron, a nervous-looking, handsome young boy of
perhaps ten appeared next, dressed in rich robes, his hair polled oddly
in a manner which bespoke his noble birth.
Old Maskron clapped the boy on the back.
"Go! See!" Old Maskron growled the terse command.
The boy ran and climbed up the diagonal brace of one of the gates to
peer out of a peephole. He was seen talking momentarily, then turned
and ran back across the courtyard and up the House front steps.
"They are blood kin of the House of Rababull!" he proclaimed excitedly
to Old Maskron.
"What? Impossible!" Old Maskron brandished his bronze sword as he made
his arthritic way down the front steps.
With the keyed-up little Master at his side, white-haired Old Maskron
wobbled and wheezed his way across the courtyard, his sandals scraping
audibly in the dust of the dirt, while fearful eyes watched his slow
progress to the gates from their ill-concealment on all quarters.
He arrived at the gates and peered out of the peephole.
Long seconds went past as he stood and talked with whoever was outside.
He nodded occasionally several times, pausing to listen now and again,
his hand idly fiddling with the sword.
Finally, he nodded approval as he turned and ordered several crippled
slaves to open the gates.
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