‘Tarrian taking you for some exercise,’ guffawed one of the guards, echoing the wolf’s own comment, as they passed through the wicket into the shelter of the broad arch of the gate. Antyr gave a self-conscious shrug, disoriented for the moment by the surge of disapproval that came up from Tarrian.
‘One of your drinking cronies, I suppose,’ he said scornfully.
The guard came over to them and gave Antyr a look of knowing confidentiality. ‘Make sure you see the Exactor,’ he said softly through barely moving lips. ‘He’s new and a real son of a w***e. He’d Gate Tax his mother for the mud she brought back on her shoes.’ He terminated the advice with a broad wink.
Antyr nodded his thanks, at the same time throwing a small jibe at Tarrian. ‘You see. My cronies sometimes prove useful. You’d be l
