his profile. The man was Lord Tudhaliya, the swordsman who had been
demonstrating his skill on an Ilsig animal the other day.
The fishermen continued to babble until ropes with slip knots were dropped over
their throats. Then they needed all their breath
to scramble after the cavalrymen. \ The troopers remounted with a burst of
chirruping cross-chat which sounded undisciplined to the caravan-master, but
which detracted nothing from the efficiency of the process. Three of the men
tied off the nooses to their saddle pommels. Tudhaliya gave a sharp order and
the squad rode at a canter back the way it had come. Citizens with business on
the quay dodged hooves as best they might. The fishermen blubbered in terror as
they tried to run with the horses. They knew that a misstep meant death, unless
the rider to whom they were tethered reined up in time. Nothing Samlor had seen
of Lord Tudhaliya suggested his lordship would permit such mercy.
There were half a dozen regulars in the bar, fishermen and fish-merchants. When
Samlor looked away from the spectacle, he found the local men staring at him. He
gave a scowl of surprise when he noticed them; but even as the locals retreated
into their mugs in confusion, Samlor understood why they had looked at him the
way they had. The Cirdonian had nothing to do with the arrests on the docks just
now; but he had nothing to do with this tavern, either. He had sat here during
three noons and drunk ale … and on the third day, the Beysibs made an arrest
on the dock below. To the vulnerable, no coincidence is chance. These fishermen