enough attempt at disguise that those who recognized him would know better than
to hail him. He left the bay stabled and went afoot; and wore ordinary clothes.
First he paid a visit to the backside of a tavern where messages tended to turn
up, if there was a chalkmark on a certain wall there. There was nothing. So one
informant failed, which meant two others had, down the line from that one.
But Sanctuary stayed uncommonly quiet-considering the carnage that had happened
over by the barracks Downwind-side. Or because of it.
He fretted, and bought a hot drink at a counter, and stood there watching
Sanctuary urchins batting something objectionable about the gutter. And took a
further walk up the street, past an easy checkpoint into Blue, dodging round a
fuller-wagon immediately after. A donkey had died in the street. That was the
morning’s excitement. The tanners from the Shambles were loading it into a cart
with more help from local brats than they wanted. A sly wag spooked the tanner’s
horse and it shied off and dumped the corpse flat, to howls from watchers
curbside.
Strat evaded the entire process, felt a jostle and spun, reaching after a
retreating arm-his heart lurched; his legs hurled him into action before he
thought, but that was temper, and he gave up the chase two steps into it. The
thief had failed, his purse was intact, and the only thought left to him was how
easily it could have been a knife. The Rankan hitting the pavements right along
with the donkey and the Ilsigi rabble howling with laughter. Or absenting