of his mouth and laughed.
‘Too slow, chief. Way too slow.”
“Damn, Thrush-what’s going on out there?”
“Nothing good. See this?” He handed the blond man one of his arrows. “That’s
what the piffle-shit are using. Blue fletch-ings-like the one that took Strat
down up near the wall.”
“So it wasn’t Jubal starting all this?”
“Hell no-but they’re in it now: them, piffles, fish. Stepsons-anyone with an
edge or a stick. They’re giving no quarter. It’s startin’ to bum out there,
chief.”
“Are we holding?”
“Holding what-” Thrusher began, only to be interrupted by the lookout and the
arrival of a messenger with a scroll from the palace. “There’s no territory
bigger than the ground under your feet.”
Walegrin read Molin’s message, crumpled the paper, and stomped it into the
offal. “Shit-on-a-stick,” he grumbled. “It’s gonna get worse-a lot worse. The
palace wants plague sign posted on Wideway and the Processional; seems our
visitors have arrived.”
“Plague sign?” Thrusher whistled and broke his remaining arrow. “Why not just
bum the whole place to the ground? Shit-where’re we supposed to get paint?”
“Use charcoal, or blood. Hell, don’t worry about it; I’ll take care of it. I got
to get out of here anyway. You find me Kama.”
The little man’s face blanched beneath his black beard. “Kama-she started the
whole thing… taking Strat down with Jubal’s arrow! There isn’t a blade or
arrow out there not marked for her back!”
“Yeah-well, I don’t believe she did it, so you get her back to the barracks for
safe-keeping. You and Cythen.”