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from the rising breeze。
“what do you want？”
sabriel opened her mouth to answer； but touchstone had already started to speak。 loudly。
“i am touchstone； sworn swordsman for the abhorsen； who stands before you。 are arrows your wele for such folk as we？”
the old man was silent for a moment； his deep…set eyes focused on sabriel； as if he could strip away any falsity or illusion by sight alone。
sabriel met his gaze； but out of the corner of her mouth she whispered to touchstone。
“what makes you think you can speak for me？ wouldn’t a friendly approach be better？ and since when are you my sworn—”
she stopped； as the old man cleared his throat to speak and spat into the water。 for a moment； she thought that this was his response； but as neither the archers nor touchstone reacted； it was obviously of no account。
“these are bad times；” the elder said。 “we have been forced to leave our firesides for the smoking sheds； warmth and fort for seawinds and the stench of fish。 many of the people of nestowe are dead—or worse。 strangers and travelers are rare in such times； and not always what they seem。”
“i am the abhorsen；” sabriel said； reluctantly。
“enemy of the dead。”
“i remember；” replied the old man； slowly。
“abhorsen came here when i was a young man。 he came to put down the haunts that the spice merchant brought； charter curse him。
abhorsen。 i remember that coat you’re wearing； blue as a ten…fathom sea； with the silver keys。 there was a sword； also 。 。 。”
he paused； expectantly。 sabriel stood； silently； waiting for him to go on。
“he wants to see the sword；” touchstone said； voice flat； after the silence stretched too far。
“oh；” replied sabriel； flushing。
it was quite obvious。 carefully； so as not to alarm the archers； she drew her sword； holding it up to the sun； so the charter marks could clearly be seen； silver dancers on the blade。
“yes；” sighed the elder； old shoulders sagging with relief。 “that is the sword。 charter…spelled。
she is the abhorsen。”
he turned and tottered back towards the archers； worn voice increasing to the ghost of a fisherman’s cross…water hail。 “e on； you four。 quick with the bridge。 we have visitors！ help at last！”
sabriel glanced at touchstone； raising her eyebrows at the implication of the old man’s last three words。 surprisingly； touchstone met her gaze； and held it。
“it is traditional for someone of high rank； such as yourself； to be announced by their sworn swordsman；” he said quietly。 “and the only acceptable way for me to travel with you is as your sworn swordsman。 otherwise； people will assume that we are； at best； illicit lovers。 having your name coupled to mine in such a guise would lower you in most eyes。 you see？”
“ah；” replied sabriel； gulping； feeling the flush of embarrassment e back and spread from her cheeks to her neck。 it felt a lot like being on the receiving end of one of miss prionte’s severest social put…downs。 she hadn’t even thought about how it would look； the two of them traveling together。 certainly； in ancelstierre； it would be considered shameful； but this was the old kingdom； where things were different。 but only some things； it seemed。
“lesson two hundred and seven；” muttered mogget from somewhere near her feet。 “three out of ten。 i wonder if they’ve got any freshcaught whiting？ i’d like a small one； still flopping—”
“be quiet！” sabriel interrupted。 “you’d better pretend to be a normal cat for a while。”
“very well； milady。 abhorsen；” mogget replied； stalking away to sit on the other side of touchstone。
sabriel was about to reply scathingly when she saw the faintest curve at the corner of touchstone’s mouth。 touchstone？ grinning？ surprised； she misplaced the retort on her tongue； then forgot it altogether； as the four archers heaved a plank across the gap； the end smacking down onto stone with a startling bang。
“please cross quickly；” the elder said； as the men steadied the plank。 “there are many fell creatures in the village now； and i fear the day is almost done。”
true to his words； cloud…shadow fell across them as he spoke； and the fresh scent of closing rain mingled with the wet and salty smell of the sea。 without further urging； sabriel ran quickly across the plank； mogget behind her； touchstone bringing up the rear。
。。
chapter xvii
all the survivors of nestowe were gathered in the largest of the fish…smoking sheds； save for the current shift of archers who watched the breakwater。 there had been one hundred and twenty…six villagers the week before—now there were thirty…one。
“there were thirty…two until this morning；”
the elder said to sabriel； as he passed her a cup of passable wine and a piece of dried fish atop a piece of very hard； very stale bread。 “we thought we were safe when we got to the island； but monjer stowart’s boy was found just after dawn today； sucked dry like a husk。 when we touched him； it was like 。 。 。 burnt paper； that still holds its shape 。 。 。 we touched him； and he crumbled into flakes of 。 。 。 something like ash。”
sabriel looked around as the old man spoke； noting the many lanterns； candles and rush tapers that added both to the light and the smoky； fishy atmosphere of the shed。 the survivors were a very mixed group—men； women and children； from very young to the elder himself。 their only mon characteristic was the fear pinching their faces； the fear showing in their nervous； staccato movement。
“we think one of them’s here；” said a woman； her voice long gone beyond fear to fatalism。 she stood alone； acpanied by the clear space of tragedy。 sabriel guessed she had lost her family。
husband； children—perhaps parents and siblings； too； for she wasn’t over forty。
“it’ll take us； one by one；” the woman continued； matter…of…fact； her voice filling the shed with dire certainty。 around her； people shuffled； twitchily； not looking at her； as if to meet her gaze would be to accept her words。
most looked at sabriel and she saw hope in their eyes。 not blind faith； or plete confidence； but a gambler’s hope that a new horse might change a run of losses。
“the abhors