trying to melt in all directions, but Mradhon kept with the migrating cover.
‘Figure who got his money and his woman,, you figure that and wonder who did for
him, that’s who…’
Hanse went for the knives. ‘Wasn’t no mark on him,’ a youngish voice was
shrilling. The crowd was swinging wildly out of the interval Vis was busy
preserving. Minsy yelled, and several strong and larger arms wound themselves
into Hanse’s elbows and about his middle. He heaved and kicked to no use while
Mradhon Vis, in the clear, straightened his person and his clothing.
‘Crazy,’ Vis said again, and Hanse poured invective on him and most especially
on those holding him from his knives – cold, sweating afraid, because Vis might
do anything, or the crowd might, and the knives were all he had. But Vis walked
off then, at an increasing pace, and Hanse launched another kick and a torrent
of abuse on those holding him.
‘Easy.’ The grip on his left was Cappen Varra’s, an arm tucked elbow to elbow
into his arm and a hand locked on his wrist; he had no grudge with the minstrel.
It was a calm voice, a cultivated, better-than-thou voice: Hanse hated Varra at
the moment, but the grip persuaded and the object of his rage was off down the
street. He took his weight on his own feet and slowly, brushing off his clothes
while he stood fairly shaking with his anger, Varra eased up and let him go.
Igan on the other side, big, not very bright Igan, let go his other arm, and
claps on his shoulders and sympathy offered … started to settle his stomach