The homeless human did not raise his voice. This told Koldin more than if he had.
 
Koldin unbuckled the golok.

Defort immediately looked at him.

Koldin removed the scabbard and passed it over, then the haversack.

Defort accepted both.

“What you gonna do, ying-man?”

“Stay here.”

“That usually means something.”

Koldin was already walking. He did not approach the three directly.

He turned toward a nearby table of used tools and slowed as though examining them. One hand moved behind his back. He looked at a row of rusted wrenches. Then a tray of bearings. Then a box of nails.

The argument continued. The criminal never looked at him.

Koldin moved closer. His feet made little sound on the packed earth.

The blind yinglet's head turned slightly.

Not toward Koldin exactly, but towards the sound of him.

Koldin passed behind the criminal.

The man raised his voice again.

Koldin moved.

There was one short impact. Koldin's foot had struck the man's upper back with one swift motion and withdrew.

The man's body seemed for an instant not to understand what had happened. His shoulders came forward. His knees failed beneath him. He made a small surprised noise and went down onto the earth between two mats.

A nearby vendor gasped. Someone else said something in Tilmuhlan. The dog barked once.

Then silence opened around the scene.

Koldin put his foot down carefully. He stood still and tested his weight.

Pads, fine. Ankle, fine. Knee, fine. Hip, fine. The footwraps didn't become undone. 

He had judged it correctly.

The man on the ground breathed. Koldin crouched beside him.

“Stay down.”

There was no response.

“Good. Asshole.”

He patted through the man’s clothing.

Wallet. Keys. Something metal tucked badly into the waistband.

Koldin pulled it free.

A revolver.

It was a break-open design with worn black finish and grips made from some reddish composite pretending to be wood. No recognizable arsenal mark. No maker. No proof that anyone, anywhere, had accepted responsibility for its manufacture.

A nowhere gun.

Koldin opened it and emptied it, catching the cartridges before they could fall into the dirt. He looked briefly at the cylinder and frame, turned the cylinder once with his thumb, then closed it.

Heavy.

The grip was too broad and too long for him. The hammer sat farther forward than he liked. He could have fired it. He would not have chosen it.

Cheap did not mean harmless. Cheap merely meant somebody had made death affordable.

Koldin stood. The blind yinglet had remained seated.

His eyes were pale and unfocused, facing generally toward where Koldin had stopped. His head tilted slightly. His ears were angled forward.

He had been listening.

Koldin realized after a moment that the other yinglet was listening specifically to him.

The light steps. The pauses.

Perhaps the voice when Koldin had told the criminal to stay down.

The blind yinglet smiled faintly.

“Ah.”

Koldin waited.

“You're from 'zhe Heart, aren't you, broer?”

“Yeah.”

“I could hear it.”

Koldin looked at his own feet.

“Hear what?”

“How you speak and walk.”

The dog had emerged from behind him and was sniffing toward the unconscious man.

The blind yinglet tugged gently on the cord.

“Don't.”

The dog returned.

“Zhanks for taking care of zhat guy,” the yinglet said.

Koldin looked down at the man.

“It's what I'm paid to do.”

The homeless human had still said almost nothing.

He stood close now, thin and gray-haired, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His expression showed neither gratitude nor hostility. Mostly fatigue.

Koldin walked up to him and held up the revolver.

“You know how to use zhis?”

The human looked at it.

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“I was in the service for a while.”

Koldin considered him.

“What service?”

“Olissingen territorial infantry. Long time ago.”

That was enough.

Koldin handed him the revolver first and then the cartridges.

The man looked surprised.

“You don't want it?”

“No.”