“To the guest-house of the nation, that used to be the palace of Baron Ulutz, who has fled to join Pavinius. The man has gone for a carriage.”
The conversation winked out. Around a corner of the street somewhere in the dim, there was a shout that came to them only as the confused “Yaya!” of many throats, followed by a crash of glass and then another shout. “What is it?” Rodvard looked at Slair.
“Some of the people, doubtless. You should know; there are many debts being paid these days.” He shrugged.
Lalette stirred; (without the Blue Star’s intervention Rodvard knew that she would find in this wild lawlessness the case against his new day). He said; “Is there much of this from day to day?”
The man’s voice was indifferent. “Enough. It is mostly Zigraner moneylenders who suffer.”
Round the corner came a carriage with a single horse, the messenger riding ahead.
“You will report to the office of the committee at the second glass in the morning,” said Slair to the rider. The fellow’s chin was badly shaven; he leaned from the saddle and said; “Well, friend Slair, I will do the best I can, but it will be hard to ride more messages so early, for Mousey here is nearly done, and she’s my livelihood.”
Rodvard now noticed that the horse was drooping with weariness, but Demadé Slair said; “If you lose one, there’s another. The people’s business will not wait. Be on time.”
The man got slowly down and patted the neck of the horse. “Friend Slair,” he said, “I am as much for the people as anyone, but there’s more to this than livelihood. This is my friend.” The tired horse sniffed at the hand he put up.
Slair surprisingly burst into laughter. “Go, then, with your friend. I’ll be your warranty if you are late.”