At every turn Shasta hoped they were getting out of the crowd， but they never did. This made their progress very slow， and every now and then they had to stop altogether. This usually happened because a loud voice shouted out “Way， way， way， for the Tarkaan”， or， “for the Tarkheena”， or， “for the fifteenth Vizier”， or， “for the Ambassador”， and everyone in the crowd would crush back against the walls； and above their heads Shasta would sometimes see the great lord or lady for whom all the fuss was being made， lolling upon a litter which four or even six gigantic slaves carried on their bare shoulders. For in Tashbaan there is only one traffic regulation， which is that everyone who is less important has to get out of the way for everyone who is more important； unless you want a cut from a whip or a punch from the butt end of a spear.
It was in a splendid street very near the top of the city （the Tisroc’s palace was the only thing above it） that the most disastrous of these stoppages occurred.
“Way！ Way！ Way！” came the voice. “Way for the White Barbarian King， the guest of the Tisroc （may he live for ever）！ Way for the Narnian lords.”