His gaze swept over those figures huddled in the distance, their eyes nonetheless snagged by the smell.
"The day you can't hand out meat anymore, these starving wolves you suddenly fattened up will be the first to tear apart whoever's standing in front of them."
Thorne had seen that ending too many times. The old Nobility never did losing trades; charity only appeared when it could be used to keep control.
Pete was still stirring the pot. The wooden ladle scraped along the bottom, making a steady, rhythmic sound.
After a while, he finally spoke, lightly: "Knight Thorne, in the Red Tide we don't call people bottomless pits. We call them labor."
Thorne started, not knowing what to say.
Pete went on, his tone still calm: "But first, you have to make sure they survive today."
The loudspeaker was quickly set up.
"Meal time—!" The shout was dragged out long.
No movement.
Pete frowned, then signaled someone to shout again: "Meal time—!"
Still no one stepped forward.
