The alleys were dark and deserted. Underfoot the rounded edges of the calanian cobblestones bit into their thin sandals. The cyclopean stone structures towered black and forbidding against the pale greyness of the night sky. Like spiderwebs of giant structure, great space-vox antennae were flung from tower to tower.
They walked slowly through the warm night, and others walked faster. It was Tyr who heard the clanking of a guard's accoutrements, the thup of a holstered ray-gun smiting a trousered thigh, the harsh rattle-clang of manacles and chains.
His wrist dragged her against him, and back with him into the shadows of a recessed door. Many men were coming down the street. There were a lot of chains, too.
A sliver of moonlight touched the leading man who walked stooped with iron and the pain of open whipcuts.
"Zarman!" breathed Tyr.
His brain raced. Zarman was the governor appointed by Tyr. The ardth had taken him and flogged him. It was a sign of their power over Tyr. The people needed a sign from their god. If he were to free Zarman and send him back to the people—
Tyr was across the cobblestones and his right fist was coming up in a short arc. A startled guard did not have time to open his mouth before the back of his head touched his spine and his neck cracked under that blow. Tyr lowered him with his left hand in the small of his back, as he snatched up the heatgun from the holster.
"Tyr!" sobbed Zarman, straightening.
The others knew him too, and in place of the blind pain and despair, came the laugh of hope to snap their backs straight and their chins forward.