Someone’s tryna- she craned her neck- I dunno, do a suspicious."īefore he could reply to this, a great din erupted from the market square. "Till a town officer gets here, I’m the law, fella. So what’s he doing out here, poaching from the likes of us? Shoot the greedy wight! There are laws! He’s obviously some rich man’s private Fool. Look! They’re putting coins in his hat- and that’s no street-license hat. Can’t you see he’s stealing our audience? Look.
Shoot him with a stinger bolt, for Ye Gods’ sakes. Damn it deep, it’s already hard enough to make a living around here. There’s a penny-poacher over there, do you see him? Him! The one with the bird! Get him off our territory. Something far more annoying than the summer flies, the stink of livestock for sale, and the wall of rain clouds threatening the sunset had worked him up. The long striped tassel of his hat hung limp. With a yawn she pulled a bolt from the pouch slung beside her crossbow: a small blunt one, enough for a man. It had lost its flavor, though perhaps not its effectiveness at preventing brats she hooked its herbal cud out of her mouth with one finger and flung it into the mud beside a cattle trough, looking up just in time to see trouble coming- a street jester, shoving the crowd aside in his zeal to make some complaint. She had the standard town emblem sewn on her sleeve, the typical ill-shorn hair stuffed up under her helmet’s molded brass curls, the all-too-common dribble of spit in one corner of her mouth from the big clod of maidenroot she chewed. The guard watching over the evening market was a big, tall, strong wench of exactly the kind who watches over markets the whole world round.
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