The men made of dismounting a monumental undertaking that had little to do with the simple act of getting down from the back of a horse. There were hands to be rubbed together, boots to be stomped, balls to be shifted, backs to be stretched. There were girths to tighten, packs to open and close, and flasks to be shaken upside down for last drops.
Kuntigern hurriedly blew a cloud of fine dark dust from the surface of the plate he was polishing and buffed a small patch clean with the heel of his hand. He leaned in close and was startled by the grotesque apparition of his own black eye leering up at him.
There were girls inside—at least two—but nowhere in their panicked gabbling was the low voice that Osh’s ears had strained all night to hear.
There were men outside—at least two.
Ffraid ducked beneath the height of the window before they could have seen more than a flash of flaming hair.
“Kraaia!”
The stones chimed, the wall behind Osh burst into light, and Vash was briefly deaf and blind.
“It’s not going to be this way, lad,” Malcolm said softly to Cearball, taking the same voice he used to calm his belligerent horse. “She isn’t worth it.”
“Take it outside!” Cadwgan warned them. “I just laid this straw!”
Lytelman had only just returned to his stool when the door blew open again. He tossed down the dice in annoyance.
“That wasn’t my cast,” he blurted when he saw how badly he had done, “I was just… oh…”
Garalt swung the heavy door outward like a scythe, prepared to mow down anyone impertinent enough to stand before it—beginning with Marcan.
Like an impertinent, fat-bellied grasshopper, Marcan leapt out of its way.
If there was one species of humanity that she could not bear, it was rude boys.
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