yarrr, ye scurvy boy-king, halt ye whinin'

"It needn't do that," said Christian. "Because I can do it for you, through Tom. He has access to all the lists in Stirling, and he'll be discreet, if I ask him. Come to this cave on Tuesday, and I'll leave word for you."

The voice this time was brief. "Thank you, Shahrazad, but I think not."

She spoke bluntly. "Crouch will be ransomed back to England long before you can find him yourself."

"Nevertheless, no."

Meeting the rock of his will, she had no mind to plead. "Well, whether you want it or not, the information will be there," said Christian. "Ignore it if you want to. Good night." And pulling Sym's coat, she moved.

She was stopped at three paces by long, wiry fingers and a gust of garlic. "...Johnnie, let her go!" said the expressive, flexible voice, and the hands dropped. She moved on quickly, without waiting for more.

Halfway back to Boghall, Simon spoke. "Who's Shahrazad?"

"A farsighted lady who kept the Shah on a leading rein by telling him stories."

Pause. "I don't see the connection," said Sym.

"Oh, don't be a fool!" said Christian irritably. "There isn't any."

from The Game of Kings by Dorothy Dunnett