the would-be warrior shouts. I've captured them! The bandits! You must bring help! I've arrested them for you!
The guard turns towards him, only now there are two of him, three, all of them congregated under the street lamp. They stare at him, their hands hanging at their sides, these creatures born from fluorescent light. But there is still more - from just around the corner comes the screech of carriage wheels and the braying of horses, and then the monstrosity swerves into view, a phalanx of guards running alongside it, guards on horses bringing up the rear, a riot of braided curtains and blank uniforms, mud churning underneath them, the carriage driver laying into his whip as if he is a machine and the only movements he is capable of are whip forward
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and rear back. The guards under the lamp have joined this procession, and now the menagerie is soaring down the street at him.
Once again, he clears his throat, spitting out the black silk that is lodged there, and shouts: I have arrested ten bandits! They are downstairs -
He is interrupted by a voice that seems to rumble from the wooden chassis of the carriage itself: You fool! You have defied us!
The carriage comes to a halt, and the man within peers out. It is the local magistrate, the local wine merchant, the pimp, all of the above, his eyes hidden under his wide-brimmed hat, a scar plainly visible on his upper lip as it snarls: Who do you think owns this tavern! Who do you
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