As he got ready to explain to her, to speak of necessity, apologize, to promise a bright future, she stepped ahead of him.
“Get the lid off,” she snapped to Cwicca. She put her hand on the fouled edge of the cart, vaulted into the dark, stomach-gagging reek inside. “Now move,” came her voice from the depths. “This is fresh air compared with King Burgred’s court.”
Slowly the cart squeaked its way across the courtyard, Shef striding ahead, spear-shaft sloped.