Right of Way

Meho tried to discover whether I keep secret instructions for murdering my friends. I declined the job, even in fancy dress. Blaedy remembered Goldshire’s stables with the weary authority of someone who has met that particular punishment, while I was being assigned the larger task of explaining angry travelers everywhere.

Then Arrowyy arrived fresh from supper in town, having survived a driver who valued a turn more than two people in the road. He laughed in her face, proposed curses upon her wheels, and shortly declared, “I'M THE PSYCHO!!!!!!!!!!!!!” At least the self-knowledge came promptly. Blaedy told him to get home safely, which is the sort of thing one says to a man who has mistaken being angry for being armored.

Afterward Arrowyy posted a picture of a pink sea-star staring aghast before a field of fire. A fair portrait of the evening’s judgment.