ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG by David A. Gemmell

‘Take this pony to the stable,’ she ordered him, ‘and then bring this young woman’s belongings inside.’

Leading Sofarita by the arm she made her way through the tables and into the main building. Here too there were diners, and the rich smell of roasting meats came wafting from the kitchens.

A tall young man spotted the pair, gave a wide grin, and came to meet them. He was wearing a white apron the front of which was stained by gravy. ‘Good evening, aunt,’ he said. ‘Come to check on your investment?’

‘You are too thin, Baj,’ she scolded him. ‘Cooks should be sturdy men. It shows that their food is well worth the eating.’ He chuckled and looked at Sofarita, his gaze frank and appraising. She felt momentarily discomfited.

‘And who is your new girl, aunt?’ he asked.

‘She is not one of my girls. I found her riding the Avenue in search of lodging. She’s a country lass and quite unspoilt, as far as one can tell. So you treat her with respect, young Baj, or I’ll want to know why. You can also sell her pony for her. She’ll have no use for it in Egaru and I should think the money will be useful.’ She turned to Sofarita. ‘Do not accept less than ten silver pennies for it. You might get as much as fifteen.’ She looked hard into the younger woman’s face. ‘How old are you? Sixteen?’

‘Twenty-two,’ said Sofarita.

‘You look younger. But I guess you’ll have learned a little wisdom, and that’s always a help for a city woman. You look after her, Baj. I will be back to check on her.’

The fat woman patted Sofarita’s shoulder, then swung away and strode out of the tavern. Sofarita felt light­headed, as if a small storm had passed. ‘Is she always like that?’ she asked Baj.

The young man gave a wide, good-natured grin. ‘Always,’ he said. ‘Come, I will find you a room.’ She followed him through a dimly lit corridor and on up a flight of rickety stairs lit by a single lantern on the first landing. Baj removed the lantern and held it ahead of him as he climbed into the gloom. ‘It will be brighter later,’ he called back to her. Til have more lanterns lit.’

The stairs ended at a gallery which circled the eating area below. Baj moved to a sturdy door, pressed the latch and opened it. Within was a small bedroom boasting a stone fireplace and a tiny window. Baj hung the lantern on a hook above the fireplace. ‘It is a little musty,’ he said, ‘but you’ll not find better for a silver penny.’

‘A month?’ she asked him. His laughter was unforced.

‘A day, pretty one. This is the city.’

‘Every day?’ Sofarita was appalled.

‘Every single day. But you get three meals, and you’ll be safe here. Believe me, that is a special rate. This room would normally earn me ten silvers a week.’

‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

‘Wait here and make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring you some food.’ After he had gone Sofarita sat down On the bed. The mattress was thin, but the blankets were thick and warm. For the first time the enormity of her action overwhelmed her. She had left a secure life in the village for the utter uncertainty of life in an environment she knew nothing about. Rising, she moved to the window and stared down on the diners below. Their clothes seemed rich and wonderful, far more graceful than the homespun garments she wore. And the colours of the dyes: rich greens, bright golds, reds and blues. One of the women below wore a dress of heavy silk, embroidered with white beads. And her hair was braided with bright wire that glinted in the lantern light.

Lisha!

The name flickered into Sofarita’s mind, and with it came a sudden vision of the woman below. She was not dining nor dressed in fine clothes. She was sitting on a threadbare rug, holding a dead baby and weeping. A feeling of sorrow washed over Sofarita. Not her own, but that of the woman below. For a moment only, she saw what the woman was seeing, a chubby older man, spooning food into his mouth. He smiled at her. A piece of dark meat was lodged between his teeth.