The bridge leading to the southern suburbs blotted out the prospect; little white cakes of ice came swimming like ducks down the stream, and the ship swung to its quay, the one around the curve. There were lanterns there and a little group waiting; they must have been seen from the walls, and the word passed through to meet them. Someone hallooed to Rodvard from the stern of the ship; Demadé Slair was waiting there with Lalette, muffled close in her long cloak. (Rodvard thought: we are come back to Dossola, both of us, as naked as when we left it, but at least with more hope.) Said Slair: “It would be as well to hurry. It does not do to be on the streets too much at night these days.” (The back of Rodvard’s mind recognized that he had given Lalette no more than a priest’s argument that night in the lock-bed, and wished that he had found a better, since she must see the defect in this one. But what? How educate her to the ideal?) The plank was flung. Five or six men were at the other end, one of them in a provost’s cloak, but the shoes were not like what they should be, nor did the doublet seem to belong to the uniform. A longsword bulged out the cloak; the eyes flicked past Rodvard to rest on Lalette. Demadé Slair identified himself and shepherded his charges past a dark shed to the quay-side street. A man was there with a horse; Slair spoke to him, he swung himself into the saddle and rode off. Said Rodvard (to say something); “That provost seemed in an inquiring mood.” Slair; “This was no provost. The general assembly has abolished that hateful order. What you saw was a people’s guard.” Rodvard; “This is a different Dossola.” Slair; “It will be a better one.” Lalette said; “Where are we going?” “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.”