the bizarre quiet in town since the fire, it was a rougher-than-usual place, the
clients that showed up being the sort who were less delicate about their own
safety, the sort who took care of themselves. So the whores on the Street were
unsurprised at the commotion down by Phoebe’s: the small office where Zaibar and
the remaining Hell-Hounds served quiet duty as policemen on the Street-that
office was unastonished tod, and tried to ignore the matter as long as
possible. Zaibar in fact was deliberately ignoring it, since rumor had spread
who was on the Street.
He poured himself another drink, and looked up as a rider on a sorrel horse went
clattering past his office as if that man had business.
Stepson. He was relieved, and took a studied sip of the drink he had poured,
feeling his problem on its way to resolution without him. The disturbance was
far from the house in which he had a personal interest; and that rider headed
down the Street was one of Tempus’s own, which interference stood a much
likelier chance of curtailing the trouble down the street. So it was wise to
have sat still a moment and trust the problem to go away; the screams went on,
but they would stop very shortly, only one life was in the balance, and the
madam of the house (if not the whore) would probably agree that this
intervention was better than police.
They were nothing if not pragmatic on the Street.
“Well,” said Jubal. “I like your attitude. I like a sensible man. Question is,
is your commander going to like you tomorrow?”