“A prophet’s job is never done,” Mord grunted as he sat down and pulled off his sandal.

“Sure it is,” Krevoche beamed, “my job will be done….” He closed his eyes and began to hum, extended his arms and wriggled his fingers.

“My job will be done on the third day of the Month Of Bringing, in the fourth year of the new cycle, when the second moon is in the House of the Virtuous Maiden,” he finished at last. Mord stopped looking at the sole of his sandal, what was left of it, and glared at the younger prophet.

Krevoche opened his eyes and noticed the old man’s piercing squint. He stopped smiling and gaped like a fish left on the beach after a storm.

“Nobody likes a smartass,” the old man hissed through his black and white beard.