They had their own taverns as well-the Broken Mallet, Tunker’s Hole, and
Belching Bili’s-laid out in a row, spilling sound and light onto Offal Court despite the night’s heat. Walegrin watched as a man staggered out one bright doorway and relieved himself in the street before choosing another route. The newcomers didn’t get into much trouble-yet.
The chamel houses were busy. Sacks of lime were stacked hight against the buildings. Moonlight turned the dust a glowing, yellow-green. It reflected off the carapaces of the night-flies, the jewel-colored insects which had recently appeared here and which were too beautiful to be vermin. He’d heard the Beysib glassmakers were having some success instilling the colors in their work and that traders were taking egg cases to aristocratic gardens all over the Empire.
Walegrin watched their swirling dance. Its ethereal beauty took the stench and the heat from his mind, but spared him enough awareness to know he was, suddenly, not alone. Tensing imperceptibly, he located the sound and let his fingers hook casually over his belt-and his sword hilt. He spun around into an armed crouch as the intruder hailed him. “Whoa! Commander?”
He recognized the voice and wished to the gods he didn’t. With his sword still at the ready, he straightened up. “Yeah, it’s me. What do you want. Zip?” The
Rankan waited while the PFLS leader came down the street. There was an ugly shadow across the young man’s face-courtesy of the treachery he’d found at
Chenaya’s hands. He’d been proud that Sanctuary had never marked him. Those days were probably over.