“Go away, Tarkle,” Hanse shouted. “All that babble you’ve been giv- ing out is just that-everybody knows you just don’t like to work.”
The big rabble-rouser with the bloody hand, once again discovering that bullying was becoming a more and more hazardous pastime, glowered and made surly noises. He also noticed the deadly eyes and several other knives on the person of a known expert he had thought was long gone from Sanctuary. Tarkle backed off-limping. Suddenly Hanse and leather-apron were exchanging stares of recognition:
“Prince!”
“Hanse!”
Excited noises went through the assemblage along with the usual rum- ble-rumble as they watched the Prince-Governor himself pounce onto a high spot and extend a hand to Hanse.
“See who works on the walls of Sanctuary?” Kadakithis called, in a loud clear voice. “A Rankan! See who saves him from a murderous bully who knows not what he’s doing?-an Ilsig … my friend.”
Hanse’s eyes rolled. Oh blast! There goes my credibility!
Kadakithis spoke on, startling all of them with his confidence and charismatic eloquence. They cheered! His people went back to work- with Kadakithis.
Damn, Hanse thought cheerlessly, stooping to grasp a big cut slab of stone. I’m stuck! I can’t just walk off and leave the Prince-Gov working like a Downwinder! But . . . damn! Work! Me!
Since Markmor’s death, Hanse learned the following Eshday afternoon from one of the fixture/characters of the Maze, the street cleaner and trash picker called Old Thumpfoot, the quite young Marype had secretly set himself up in Lastel’s villa, whether legally or otherwise.