"Sorry. Very nice moustache. Wrong place, wrong time."
Lyan vaulted over the fallen big man, ducked under the still-rhyming guard's clumsy swing—"I'll crush your—ow, my knee!"—and reached the front door in three long strides.
The bar across it was solid iron. He grabbed it, dropped his weight, and heaved.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then metal screamed. The bar lifted just enough to clear the brackets.
"Will," he grunted.
Will crashed into the door with his shoulder. Wood splintered. The door flew open, slamming into someone unlucky enough to be standing outside with their ear pressed to it.
Lyan and Will tumbled out into the street in a hail of glass, splinters, and drifting potion dust.
Lanterns swung wildly overhead, casting the chaos in a seasick golden sway. A couple of passersby froze mid-step as glittering powder settled on their shoulders, then decided, wisely, to pretend they had seen nothing and hurry away.
Behind them, the apothecary boiled with noise.
