It was too dark to examine the lizard-ape chick trapped in Lycon’s net, even had there been time for that. After being slammed against the wall, it moved only as it jiggled within its silken wrappings. That might mean the cat-sized killer was dead, and thus useless to the beastcatcher’s half-formed plan—but it had come this far, and it was going the rest of the way.
The full complement of the Watch for the district had been present before the fire broke out, so matters were in surprisingly good order at street level. One squad had wrenched the stairwell door off its pivot pins, and patrolmen were tossing people and possessions into the street with scant ceremony. Half the value of chattels rescued from a fire went to the State purse, but it was necessary to get the humans out of the way before the more important work of salvage could proceed. Ladders were raised to windows as high as the third floor, and there the shutters had been beaten in and furnishings were being passed into hands of teams ready to secure them. If the building itself could be saved, so much the better, because the value of the structure would also be applied to the Emperor’s share. But such was unlikely here, since the upper floors were already fully involved. By the time the fire was low enough for bucket brigades to reach it, collapsing masonry would have cleared the area of even the boldest.
Hands seized N’Sumu as he reached the street door. The Egyptian was stumbling now with fatigue—or some more doubtful reason. Nonetheless N’Sumu was enraged at being manhandled. He snarled something in a language Lycon had never heard, and pointed his finger in a motion quite different from the casual touching movements with which he had cleared a path down the stairs. Lycon, staggering himself, caught N’Sumu’s wrist from behind—certain that the lethal flash he had glimpsed in the loft was sure to follow. Whether N’Sumu was an Egyptian wizard or a god who might hurl lightning bolts, Lycon judged that the fewer witnesses to his strange powers, the better. Roughly he steered N’Sumu clear of the melee.
Vonones tumbled out after them. The merchant had been facing backward against the press that would have overwhelmed them despite N’Sumu’s best efforts, had Vonones not threatened its leaders with the sword he had picked up from the stairs. There was blood on the sword-tip now, besides the plaster grit the blade had been covered with when Lycon hacked through the wall. The dealer’s bare skin was scratched and sweaty and spattered with blood not solely his own. His whip was in his left hand, his palm gripping the tip against the base of the stock—a leather-wrapped staff whose core was the penis bone of a lion. Vonones looked wild and deadly, and he was both those things at the moment. The men of the Watch lurched back to let the three pass through their ranks.
“Come on, we’ve got to get back from this!” Lycon called out. He had no idea in the world where they needed to go—nor did it matter, so long as it was out of the chaos and congestion caused by the fire.
Refugees, spectators, and those trying to limit the damage of the blaze clogged the streets. Many of those who had made their initial escape were now trying to return to the building in hope of saving some of their belongings. Of the spectators, some watched with the greedy wonder brought out by any major disaster—an expression that Lycon had seen multiplied by tens of thousands in the seats surrounding the arena. Others, though, wore something closer to the look of victims waiting for the lions. The orange claw that dripped cascading sparks might not be satisfied with a single kill. If a breeze sprang up, if the hinted rain chose not to fall, fire would maul the whole quarter—dozens of buildings, perhaps hundreds. Those watching from their windows or from the street outside their shops saw sooty victims weep for the dead and the lost, in full realization that in another hour they themselves might join the parade of mourners.