The weaving workshop on the street west side had given them three weavers and two bodies.
The first man had grabbed a shuttle when they came through the door, and the rider on his left had cut him across the chest before the swing connected. He was on the floor beside the loom with his hands still curled around nothing.
The second hadn't fought. He'd stood against the far wall and looked at them, the rider read his hands, soft across the palm and unmarked, and put the blade into his throat where he stood. The blood from that one had spread across the workshop floor and under the loom frame and was still running toward the drain channel in the stone when they left.
The three weavers were outside now, moving up the street under the trailing rider's direction.
The rider stepped back into the lane.
