of turning and running. Curiosity urged him to edge two steps farther and peek
around the building housing Sly’s. Curiosity won.
By the time he looked, Athavul was whimpering and gibbering. Someone in a long
cloak the colour of red clay, hood up, stepped around him and Hanse thought he
heard a giggle. Cowering, pleading, gibbering in horribly obvious fear – of
what? – Athavul ^ fell to his knees. The cloak swept on along Tanner towards the
i Street of Odours, and Hanse swallowed with a little effort. A knife had got
itself into his hand; he didn’t throw if. He edged down a few more steps to see
which way the cloak turned. Right. Hanse caught a glimpse of the walking stick.
It was white. The way the person in that cloak was moving, though, she was not
blind. Nor was she any big woman.
Hanse put up his knife and started towards Athavul. ‘No! Please plehehehease!’
On his knees, Ath clasped his hands ; and pleaded. His eyes were wide and glassy
with fear. Sweat and [ tears ran down his face in such profusion that he must
soon have i salt spots on his black jerkin. His shaking was wind-blown wash on
the line and his face was the colour of a priming coat of whitewash.
Hanse stood still. He stared. ‘What’s the matter with you, Ath? I’m not menacing
you, you fugitive from a dung-fuelled stove! Athavul! What’s the matter’th you?’
‘Oh please pleoaplease no no oh ohh ohohohono-o-o…’ Athavul fell on his knees
and his still-clasped hands, bony rump in the air. His shaking had increased to
that of a whipped, starved dog.