Reasonably enough.
Samlor paused. If the toughs did turn away in fear of what confronted them, he didn’t want to be launched into an attack intended for their backs.
He didn’t know what was going on. Sometimes you had to act anyway -but just now, Star was out of immediate danger, so there was no point in going off half-cocked.
Something-a man, there was no damned doubt about it, but he was only a hand span tall-stood on the right shoulder of the man with the glowing staff. The little fellow hopped up and down, then piped, “Do not be afraid to do that in which you are right!”
A thug swore and swung his weapon at the staff.
Instead of blades or ordinary clubs, this trio of street toughs carried weighted chains which Samlor had mistaken in the tavern for items of armor or adornment when they were coiled through an epaulette loop on each youth’s shoulder. Each chain was about a yard long, made up of fine links which slipped over one another like drops of water. They were polished glass-smooth and then plated for looks-silver for two of the thugs, gold for the third who now swung his weapon in a glittering arc.
Both ends of the chain were weighted by lead knobs the size of large walnuts, armed with steel spikes. The knobs were heavy enough to stun or kill but still so light that they could be directed handily and with blinding speed. A skilled man in the right situation could pulp an oppos- ing knife artist, and he could do so with the sort of flashy display which on the street counted for more than success.