As she approached the bridge that crossed the White Foal River a gaggle of grubby street urchins surrounded her. She smiled at their play, dipped a hand into the purse on her belt, and tossed a fistful of coins over her shoulder. The children lost interest in her and began scuffling for the glinting bits of metal. She laughed heartily, started past the deserted guard-post and across the bridge.
As she set foot in Downwind two men appeared to block her path. “Mebbe y’ud be s’free wi’ the rest o’ yer spark,” croaked the one on her left. The point of his sword indicated her purse.
“An’ wit’ yer other charms, too,” his partner suggested.
A disdainful smirk flickered over Chenaya’s features as she heard two more slide up behind her, heard the soft susurrus of steel slipping from sheathes. They wore no armbands, so they weren’t part of Zip’s group. From the rags they wore she guessed they followed Moruth.
That suited her fine. Moruth-the beggar king-was one of the faction leaders that had dared to oppose the PFLS. Well, she hadn’t come to Downwind to win Moruth’s favor. Unfortunately for His Beggar-Majesty, she had come to win Zip’s.
She didn’t bother turning to see the two behind her. They gave away their positions by their breathing and by their constant foot-shuffling. “You’ll make perfect offerings,” she informed them gruffly. “I’ll pour your blood as a libation to the leader of the PFLS.”
The man who had spoken first tuned pale, but he held his ground, tapping his blade against his palm. “You part o’ Zip’s group?” he asked suspiciously. “You got no band on yer sleeve,”