The aged king's head bobbed on his spindly neck as he lounged on his throne, his fur-lined cloak lopsided on his ancient shoulders, a tendril of drool escaping his puckered lips. Disgusting old man.

Hanz Morde turned to High Judge Azmus, who stood beside him before the king.

"Fifty-three dead," he said shortly. "Give or take a few wicks."

"Galdori?" asked the High Judge, raising a black eyebrow.

"Human and wick," answered the leader of the Seventen, his face twisting into a sneer. "Three of ours killed, as well."

"And in the middle of it all was your man," Azmus mused, petting his beard. Both men were thoroughly ignoring the king, who didn't seem to mind; he seemed more like a piece of furniture than the person they were reporting to.

"Yes," said Morde again. "But we are told he did not begin the fight. You don't have to do much to stir up the wild emotions of those savages. The fight was probably over a woman or a handful of baubles."

"This cannot happen again," said Azmus, his voice thundering. "I warned you, when those filthy ingrates moved into town with their little carts and stalls and immoral licentious brood! They would cause nothing but trouble. I want them out!"

"All of them, sir?" said Morde, his gaze falling on the High Judge's gold-incrusted mantle, the jeweled saber in his hilt. A man of privilege, prestige and old money. He knew nothing of patrolling the streets, keeping the city safe. Soft hands, soft mind...

"EVERY LAST ONE," screeched Azmus. "Get them out of the city! I don't care if you have to set up bloody camps for them outside of Vienda, I don't care if you have to kill every man, mother and child, just make it so! I cannot stand the sight of them! Wicks, witches, filling the streets with their cheap wares, peddling their false magic, making a mockery of our gods! I want them gone!!"

The High Judge's breathing was quick, and his face was red with anger. Morde felt it was not the moment to protest.

"And it shall be done, sir," he said. "Any without a writ of residence will be deported immediately."

Azmus looked as though he was about to protest.

"A writ of..." He frowned. "Yes, I forgot about that law. We must uphold the law..."

His frantic gaze turned on the King, whose head had lolled to one side, his eyes rolled back in his head like a corpse.

"No," he said slowly, his eyes glazing over with fear and hatred. "All of them. I don't care if they were born here, if they've never set foot in a bloody caravan. We must be rid of them. Get them out of my city."