Strophe and counterstrophe reached their epode. The Master was out of her reach, but not the grinning thief at her side. "Final as far as I'm concerned, ye petty-souled slug, ye!" shrieked Dame Janet with ear-cracking clarity, and seized and hurled a cold pudding into Blackbeard's face. As the big man, cursing, scraped at blancmange with both hands, Janet filched his own dagger and made for him.
But not fast enough. Lymond, watching from the door, had no mind to lose one of his men. Good humour and insolence tittered into the shadows, and as Dame Janet began her lunge, Lymond drew back his own arm and threw.
from The Game of Kings by Dorothy Dunnett
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