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Arnmegin the Black Plowman. The river Rent ran true, from the eastern cut of the inland sea and deep into the wild northlands where lakes and rivulets made a fine labyrinth in which traders hid away from the raiders of the outland sea, the myriad river cities rich on the yieldings of the land. Those who went therein were as likely to succumb to a sandy embankment as he was to find a plump cog to unburden, and even those who were so lucky would have to find his way back out. Some few did, rich for a season, but most stayed clear, preferring to beat west and south for the fat spoils of coastal cities and the givings of hungry lords of the flatlands. Not so the Plowman. Three-and-ten times he went in, three-and-ten he would emerge back out.