There were two slit windows serving this side of the taproom. The grating still covered one, but the light silhouetted the crisp rectangle of the other from which the wickerwork had been torn since the caravan master last saw it inside- Even so, the opening was too narrow to pass an adult.
Samlor’s mouth opened to call, but the child in the midst of four men was already screaming, “Uncle Samlor\”
There were three of them between him and Star, packed into the pas- sageway so that the child’s dust-whitened garments were only a shimmer past their legs. They were the punks from the table by the door. Beyond them was a fourth man, tall and hooded, closing Star’s escape route.
Light in the passageway was only the ghost filtering through the tavern windows and reflected from the filth-blackened wall opposite, but it was enough for Samlor’s business. He drew the push dagger from its sheath under the back of his collar and held it so that its narrow point jutted out between the fourth and middle fingers of his left hand.
Before the caravan master could lunge into action, the hooded man stepped past the cringing Star and held his staff vertically to confront the trio of toughs. Either the hood was flapping loose or something tiny capered on the fellow’s shoulder.
“What are you doing with this child?” he demanded in a clear voice. “Begone!”
“Hey,” said the nearest thug, doubtful enough to step back and jostle a companion.
The staff glowed pale blue, a hazy color which seemed to hang in the air as the object trembled. The face beneath the hood was set with deter- mination which controlled but did not eliminate the underlying fear. The staff shook because the man holding it was terrified.