Such an animal would have moved Hanse to pity. Athavul was just ridiculous.
Hanse wanted to kick him. He was also aware that two or three people were
peering out of the dump still called Sly’s Place though Sly had taken dropsy and
died two years back.
‘Ath? Did she hurt you? Hey! You little piece of camel dropping – what did she
do to you?’
At the angry, demanding sound of Hanse’s voice, Athavul clutched himself.
Weeping loudly, he rolled over against the wall. He left little spots of tears
and slobber and a puddle from a spasming sphincter. Hanse swallowed hard.
Sorcery. That damned Enos Y – no, he didn’t work this way. Ath was absolutely
terrified. Hanse had always thought him the consistency of sparrow’s liver and
chicken soup, with bird’s eggs between his legs. But this – not even this
strutting ass could be this hideously possessed by fear without preternatural
aid. Just the sight of it was scary. Hanse felt an urge to stomp or stick Ath
just to shut him up, and that was awful.
He glanced at the thirty-one strands of dangling Syrese rope (each knotted
thirty-one times) that hung in the doorway of Sly’s. He saw seven staring
eyeballs, six fingers, and several mismatched feet. Even in the Maze, noise
attracted attention … but people had sense enough not to go running out to see
what was amiss.
‘BLAAAH!’ Hanse shouted, making a horrid face and pouncing at the doorway. Then
he rushed past the grovelling, weeping Athavul. At the corner he looked up
Odours towards Straight, and he was sure he saw the vermilion cloak. Maroon now,