Out in the plains of the Plaza, a dozen other blackskulls found themselves surrounded. The mob wanted Marquis.

And Starlady, shining crimson, stood and waited, and when she moved the red reflections flashed in her hair like liquid fire. Till another voice challenged hers.

“You spin a wobbly spin, Starlady,” Hairy Hal said from the foot of the stairs. They’d gone for him, of course. By now the news had rippled far beyond the Silver Plaza. “Probly little Janey Small of Rhiannon hasn’t seen the Marquis kill, but Hairy Hal has. He’s good, redhead, an’ Hal is going to watch while he teaches you how to scream.”

Heads turned, people murmured. Hairy Hal, well, wasn’t he her lover? No, the answers came, she never hummed to him, so maybe his hum’s gone sour.

“There’s Hairy Hal,” Starlady called from her perch. “Hairy Hal the quiet pimp, but you ought to call him Chilly Hal. Ask Mayliss, and she’ll tell you. Ask me, too, about Golden Boy and Hal.”

Stumblecat, his stingstick sheathed, pushed his way forward and stood next to Hal. “Hal’s just smart, Janey,” he said smiling. “You, sadly, are not. Though you are pretty. Maybe the Marquis will let you live, and rent you out to nerve lash freaks.”

Hal laughed, coarsely. “Yes. Hal could hum to that.”

Her eyes flashed at him, as the red light flicked to gold. Then Marquis came.

He walked easily, gracefully, swinging his stingstick and smiling. His eyes were lost behind their dark ring. Crawney scrambled beside him, trying to keep up.

As if on signal, Stumblecat drew his stick and gestured. People pulled back, leaving a clear circle at the base of the stairway. A wall formed to keep onlookers out; blackskulls and Starlady’s swaggers, working together.