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64 - Here we go again!

At Nouveau Limoges, I walked along through the market, and something was a little off. I began to worry when everyone parted in a big circle around a man.
"Ellay ton shainay," said the old man, wrinkled and worn, in a singer's voice, loud, clear, forceful . . . angry . . . very, very angry. The crowd shouted for a while, but there was a hush as he spoke again.
I don't remember most of what he said. People in the buildings shouted things at him, and from their tone, I doubt they agreed with him. From all sides, the neighbors expressed what must have been disapproval of his gathering. His concluding phrase still hangs in my mind, though I dared not ask what it meant.
"Sillya ton esclov . . . innya pah daily bear," he shouted at the top of his powerful lungs and raised his fists, wrist against wrist, as though bound together, as he glared at a large force of soldiers (It looked as though they were coming for him). I am certain his words could be heard, crisp and clear, from one end of the station to the other.
Once more, the crowd burst out in rage, and the soldiers backed away toward safer ground. As the soldiers retreated, he led the frenzied, riotous mob in a strange chant . . . "Ah nasclov . . . oh soon leeb . . . ah nasclov . . . oh soon leeb . . . "
Over and over, louder and louder, in a cadence, they kept shouting that until it was all anyone could hear. Anger and wrath defined their faces, and each raised both fists, pressed together at the wrist, to join the rhythm. Then it began again, same as the last time they got like this. Pots, pans, tables, chairs, everything you could imagine (and some things you shoudn't) went flying through the air. Most of it hit people. Most of them fought back. I fled to my ship and scrambled aboard just as the shouting turned to shooting.
I didn't follow protocol this time. Why bother? The portmaster had just broken a priceless bottle of port wine over someone's head. I didn't even look at what I selected for the destination. As I launched into space, I breathed a sigh of releif, but then I saw that I was headed straight for Daedalus. I never left the ship. I just punched in Tau Station when I got to the dock, and off I went again, much to the confusion of the landing crew.
Back on Tau Station, I paid the dock crew to refuel my ship . . . MY ship . . . but I remember how little they paid me and how little my customers paid for the samples they received. Someone is making money there, and it's not the ones doing the work.
The assistant Portmaster, whom I will forever call Mr. Cool, had his back to the work area, and a lone slate sat on the table, so I scooped it up as he wheeled around with his evil, smug, self-assured grin. How could such a distinctive-looking man be so rotten and snide?
I almost didn't have to guess. The slate was for a refueling job . . . mine . . .
Later, after a few runs through the tunnels at Kobenhavn, I caught notice of a new message from Ser Moritz, a call to serve the Syndicate, . . .
I sure hope this turns out better than what I just went through.