Grailblazers by Tom Holt Page B

How does that sound?’
    Pertelope shook his head. ‘Don’t you worry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m not just going to up and leave you, you can count on that?’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Really.’
    Lamorak nodded, and then stretched out his trembling hand for the rock once more. Pertelope kicked it away, and then went and sulked under a sand dune.
    It didn’t last, though; Pertelope’s sulks never did. Thus, when Lamorak had just fallen asleep and was already dreaming rapturously of a swimming pool full of frosted beer surrounded by club sandwiches, Pertelope sat down a few judicious feet away, extended his right leg and prodded his companion in the ribs.
    â€˜Never mind,’ he said. ‘Something’ll turn up, you’ll see.’
    Lamorak groaned feebly and turned on his side. Pertelope shuffled a little nearer.
    â€˜Apart from lizards,’ he said, ‘there’s snakes, and a sort of small bird. Actually they’re quite rare these days, because of the erosion of their natural environment by toxic industrial waste; so we’ll only eat those as a very last resort. But like I said, there’s lizards and...’
    â€˜Mnnn.’
    â€˜Or perhaps,’ Pertelope continued, ‘we’ll be rescued by a party of wandering aborigines, although really you shouldn’t call them that, because really they’re a very ancient and noble culture, with a very sophisticated neo-mystical sort of religion that makes them in tune with the earth and things. Apparently...’
    â€˜Pertelope,’ Lamorak said, ‘I’m lying on a packing case.’
    â€˜Well then, move a bit. I read somewhere that they can walk for days at a time, just singing, and come out precisely where they intended to go, just by harmonising their brainwave patterns to the latent geothermal energies of ...’
    â€˜It says Tinned Peaches, Pertelope.’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜On the lid,’ Lamorak replied. ‘There’s a label saying Tinned Peaches.’
    There was a momentary pause.
    â€˜What did you say?’ Pertelope enquired.
    â€˜Oh for Christ’s sake,’ Lamorak shouted. ‘Come over here and look for yourself.’
    Between them they scrabbled the half-buried case out of the ground, and broke the screwdriver blade of Pertelope’s Swiss Army knife levering off the lid.
    The crate was full of tins of peaches.
    â€˜Quick,’ Lamorak hissed, ‘Give me the bloody penknife.’ He grabbed it and feverishly flicked at the tin-opener attachment with his brittle thumbnail.
    â€˜Hang on,’ said Pertelope, turning a tin round in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Lammo, but we can’t eat these. It’s a pity, but ...’
    Lamorak froze. ‘What the hell do you mean, we can’t eat them?’ he said. ‘Okay they’re a bit rusty, but...’
    Pertelope shook his head. ‘It’s not that,’ he said firmly. ‘Look, see what’s written here on the label. Produce of South Africa. I’m afraid ...’
    Lamorak gave him a very long look, and then put the penknife down.
    â€˜That’s it,’ Pertelope said. ‘I know it’s hard luck, but what I always say is, principles are principles, and it’s no good only sticking to them in the good times, because...’
    He was still talking when Lamorak hit him with the tin.
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    The Fruit Monks of Western Australia are one of the few surviving branches of the great wave of crusading monasticism that originated shortly after the fall of Constantinople in 1205. The Templars, Hospitallers and Knights of St John have largely disappeared, or been subsumed into other organisations and lost their identity; but the Monachi Fructuarii still cling to their ancient way of life, and their Order remains basically the same as it did in the days of its founder, St Anastasius of Joppa.
    Legend has it that St Anastasius, inspired by