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“Javan!” Lčof called out as he and Lys approached. “Did that man give you his name? Lys wants to know.”
Javan tugged the knot tight and patted the horse’s neck. His fingers absently brushed at the brown hair, caked as it was with the dirt that had mixed the sweat and caked stiffly around the hairs. “No. He didn’t give me his name. All he said was, ‘Thank you, my lad,’” Javan dropped his voice to imitate the General’s. “And then he went in. Sorry, can’t help you with knowing who he is, Lys.” He smiled and reached for one of the stiff brushes that Lčof had just brought in. “He’s caked with old sweat and dust, Lčof,” Javan said, taking the brush to the travel worn horse.
“Guess who else we saw this morning,” Javan said with some importance to Lys. “It was before anyone else was up."
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