long farmers’ market. Hanse crimped his cheeks in a little smile. Oh he was so
clever, so speedy! He was just in time to-
– to see the two cloakless but hooded footpads materialize from the deep jet
shadows at the building’s corner. They pounced. One ran angling, to grasp her
from behind, while his fellow came at her face-on with no weapons visible. Ready
to snatch what she had, and run. She behaved surprisingly; she lunged to one
side and prodded the attacker in front. Prodded, that Hanse saw; she did not
strike or stab with the white staff.
Instantly the man went to his knees. He was gibbering, pleading, quaking. A
butterfly clinging to a twig in a windstorm. Or … Athavul.
Swiftly – not professionally fast, but swiftly for her, a civilian, Hanse saw
(he was moving) – she turned to the one coming up behind her. He also adjusted
rapidly. He went low. The staff whirred over his head while his partner babbled
and pleaded in the most abject fear. The footpad had not stopped moving.
(Neither had Hanse.) Up came the hooded man from his crouch and his right hand
snapped out edge-on to strike her wrist while his other fist leaped to her
stomach. That fist glittered in the moonlight, or something glittered in it.
That silvery something went into her – and she made a puking gagging throaty
noise and while she fell the white stick slid from her reflexively opening
fingers. He grabbed it.
That was surely ill-advised, but his hand closed on the staffs handle without
apparent effect on him. He kicked her viciously, angrily – maybe she felt it,