With a sharp crack, the Long Halberd sliced through the short blade as easily as chopping vegetables. Then it stopped dead, its keen edge resting against the man's throat.
"Who do you work for?" Pan Long asked.
The lanky man with the Long Halberd at his throat went deathly pale. His legs shook, and he could not force out a word.
The cold, sharp touch at his throat had shattered every scrap of his courage.
"We work for Boss Feilie!" shouted another young man, whom Weimar had just kicked to the ground. "Please let us go! We were only curious!"
"Curious?" Joseph sneered. "Curious enough to take turns watching my house, day and night, with six or seven men?"
The young man mumbled, "We'd never seen anyone come into a windfall like you before..."
Weimar sneered too. "Do you believe that nonsense yourself?"
The young man grimaced. "Just tell us what it'll take for you to let us go."
Joseph flexed his fists. His knuckles cracked and popped.
The young man turned deathly pale, but instead of running, he crouched on the ground and covered his head with both hands. "Hit me all you want. Just don't use a blade..."
Pan Long could not help laughing. "You've got a future, kid. Pretty quick on your feet. What's your name?"
"Milton. My name is Milton, sir."
"Milton Feilie. Old Feilie's second son," said a middle-aged man nearby. "He's nowhere near as good a fighter as his brother, but he's got a much better head on his shoulders."
Pan Long looked over. The man wore green leather armor, and Pan Long raised an eyebrow.
In Holy Salt Town, green had a special meaning. The City Patrol's standard-issue armor was that color, and over time, green had become the unofficial "official color." Apart