The streets were deserted that morning.

Where the market usually bustled with activity, there were abandoned stalls surrounded by jungles of cord that roped off the scene of the riot. No wick carts rumbled across the paving stones; only a few determined humans kept their businesses open, hoping in vain that customers would come by.

It seemed that in only a few short days the city had been emptied of wicks. The Seventen had been patrolling up and down the streets of the Dives all day, grim-faced and determined; small scuffles had broken out everywhere, leaving buildings torched and smoking, stalls broken and bashed in, and many bruised faces on the city's police force.

"Can't take much more of this, Albert," admitted Constable Gready to his second-in-command.

"This is grim indeed," agreed the other man. "What do you suppose the High Judge is thinking? I can't figure it out, myself."

"Everyone we've seen today has looked at us like we're clocking gargoyles," Gready said, frowning deeply. "Not why I joined up - not at all."

"What do you expect, sir?"

Gready sighed. "I expect our leaders to give us orders that make sense," he said bitterly. "We're supposed to keep the peace. Bothering wicks that have never left the city is just stirring the pot. Get the bloody brawling tribes out, sure, but there's no reason for this. Miss Dapple on the corner used to sell me my morning coffee. Ensign Duncan deported her this morning, and she's never set foot on a caravan."

Albert nodded dully, not wanting to speak ill of his superiors, but he agreed. This solution wasn't any solution at all; it was just going to cause more trouble in the city. At least they hadn't been ordered to search houses, but something in his bones said that this was only the beginning of their troubles.

"Ah," he said, pointing with his glaive. A huddled woman on the corner was hurriedly packing up the remains of her trinket stall.

Constable Gready made as though to kick in his heels, urging his chrove forward, but stopped.

"Probably a human," he said dismissively.

"But sir-"

"You heard me, Ensign," Gready answered, sharply. "Move out. Let's head over to Wheate Street. There could be some more tribesmen in the alleys by the paper factory."

Albert nodded, understanding. This was degrading work, not fit for men of their training and honor. They were there to keep the peace, not persecute blindly.

In truth, very few of the Seventen were thrilled about their orders. Many felt they were being wielded like a club, despite their training to be a fine instrument, a scalpel; instead of cutting off the problem area, they were amputating the city's legs.

Looking over at the woman again, he saw another chrove pass by her, the officer pretending not to have seen her at all. He hitched his reins and began following his constable. It was shaping up to be the strangest of years.