the night. Voices. Many voices. A crowd of voices.
Huh!
Up and over into the greenhouse. First, removing a shutter. And then, looking
out and down.
The streets that he could see from his second floor were alive with torchlights.
And, everywhere, people. Several times, as passersby went beneath his window,
Stulwig leaned out and called stentoriously: ‘What is it? What’s happening?’
From the replies that were yelled back, totalling at least as many as he could
count on the fingers of both hands, he was able to piece together the reason for
the celebration – for that was what it was.
The people of Sanctuary celebrating a victory.
What had occurred: beginning shortly after the brilliance of Vashanka had
dwindled to darkness in a puff of vanishment, messengers began to run along the
streets of the Maze and through all the lesser sections of the city.
The messengers were Jubal’s spies and informants. And as a result of the message
they spread –
Myrtis’s women whispered into the ears of males, as each in turn received that
for which he had paid. An electrifying piece of information it was, for the men
flung on their clothes, grabbed their weapons, and charged off into the night
distances of the Maze.
The worshippers at the bar of the Vulgar Unicorn suddenly drained their cups.
And they, also, took to their heels – that was the appearance. An astonished
barkeeper ventured to the door. Peered out. And, hearing the pad of feet and the
rustle of clothing, and seeing the torches, hastily locked up and joined the