“We share with them, for a price,” Zip tried to explain. “Some fish want to get out of the water.” He turned to the Beysib and snarled: “Get back to your tub boat, old man. You’ve got no business here after sundown!”
The man’s eyes went wide and glassy, like he’d seen a ghost, then he turned and ran. Zip stood staring after him.
“Umm,” Walegrin said, pretending disinterest. “I thought we were in a hurry. If this is your shortcut to Weaver’s Way, I don’t think much of it.” He sniffed disdainfully, as the locals expected the Rankans to do, and took note of the smells in the air. Only one was worth remembering: distilled light oil such as he had smelled when Chenaya ambushed the PFLS and they’d retaliated with their fire-bottles.
“Can’t trust those fish,” Zip said as they approached the door the Beysib had left open in his haste to leave the warehouse.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Walegrin agreed, and wondered if Zip were truly preoccupied enough to believe that a Rankan soldier hadn’t figured out where the oil and glass for his fire-bottles was coming from.
The PFLS leader set a good pace along the Wideway. Sweat came up and clung to the both of them. Once they crossed the Processional, though, and entered
Sanctuary’s better neighborhoods, Walegrin took command with Zip walking nervously beside him.
“You sure about this place?” the dark-haired man demanded.
“Yeah. I’m no fool. You’ll owe me one.”
Zip stopped, touching Walegrin’s arm as he did, so the two men stood facing each other.
“Pork all, Walegrin. It’s for the girl back there, not me.”