---
They squealed. Someone tried to hand him a paper crown. He tried to accept and also remain dignified. The result looked like a very small king in a very large hurry.
"Later," John murmured.
Fizz tossed the crown back like a frisbee. "Later I will sign faces."
They cut west, angling through side streets where shutters blinked awake and cats evaluated humanity with frank hostility. The city gate reared up at the end of a long straight — the northward arch where caravans lined like beads and guards checked passes with the resigned flair of men whose coffee had been ruined by other men's decisions.
