They'd stopped in the arched entryway to another little gallery, this one illuminated by a light thrown against the far wall. On the brick, framed by dry vines, someone had drawn the decapitated head of an antlered animal in thick, straight black strokes; a livid streak of red-orange paint slashed across its throat.

Teige wavered. "T' hells t'at."

Hawk didn't immediately answer; Teige squinted at the graffiti, scratching his chin. "Oh, I seent t'is tag on my courier route. T'is is a big un, though."

"It's a nashlist thing," Hawk said. Teige looked at him uncomprehendingly, so he tried again. "N--Nash'nlist. Y'know."

"Ohhh. Nationalist." Teige put his head to one side as they emerged into the gallery. It was a big tag; they both had to look up some to see it. "I see, and t' laar is t' d'Escala symbol animal, eh."

"Yeah. Some people got real pissed about what Numair did to get R.I.T. passed. So there's some gang or some'n doin' this now."

Teige clucked derisively, hoisting the keg he'd been carrying to his mouth. "Jaysus, t'ese bastards 're always so dramatic."

Hawk frowned. "Yeah," he agreed, and put the pipe to his lips, "But I...I worry."