in his assessment of potential enemies. He could see no obvious signs of any about this man. Why then did S’kith know that the bald man was so dangerous? On the shoulder of his battered jacket was an embroidered patch. It meant nothing to S’kith, but he noted how folk peered at it, and then backed off, sometimes bowing.
At last they came out of the nearest stall, the proprietor still bowing obsequiously and rubbing his hands. His lacquered tones were tinged with regret. “Great Sirs, magnificent Lady, are you sure none of my fine stock suits your needs?”
The broad man’s voice was oddly high. “Not unless you’re for sale, you fat rogue. I’ve a use for you.” The grin full of big yellow snaggle teeth suggested whatever that use was, it wouldn’t be pleasant.
“Enough, Beywulf,” the tall man commanded, his voice disapproving. “It’s not the most appealing head, but leave it on his shoulders . . . for now. Come, we’ve a few more of these carrions’ stalls to check through.”
The slave dealer was left wordless as they strode off.
They walked past