Ziraccu, the merchant city. Everything had a price in Ziraccu. Especially in the years of the Angostin War, when the disruption to trade brought economic ruin to many.
I was young then, and I could weave my stories well. It was a good living, traveling from city to city, entertaining at taverns -and occasionally palaces – singing and magicking. The Dragon’s Egg was always a favorite, and I am sorry it has fallen into disregard in these latter days.
It was an evening in autumn in Ziraccu, and I was hired to play the hand-harp at a wedding celebration in the south quarter. The daughter of a silk merchant was marrying the son of a spice trader. It was more an alliance than a marriage and the bride was far from attractive. I will not dwell on her shortcomings for I was, and am, a gentleman. Suffice to say that her ugliness was not so great as to be memorable. On the other hand I felt great pity for the groom, a fine, upstanding youngster with clear blue eyes and a good chin. I could not help but notice that he rarely looked at his bride, his eyes lingering on a young maiden seated at the foot of the table.
It was not the look of a lascivious man, and I knew instantly that these two were lovers. I felt for them, but said nothing. I was being paid six silver pennies for my performance and this, at the time, was more important than true love thwarted.
The evening was dull and the guests, filled with good wine, became maudlin. I collected my fee, which I hid carefully in a special pocket in my right boot before setting off for my lodgings in the northern quarter.
Not a native of Ziraccu, I soon became lost, for there were no signs to be seen, no aid to the wanderer. I entered an ill-smelling maze of alleys, my heart pounding. My harp was slung over my right shoulder, and any who saw me would recognize the clothes of a bard – bright yellow shirt and red leggings. It would be most unusual to be accosted, for bards were rarely rich and were the only gatherers of news and gossip. We were welcome everywhere -especially those of us who knew a little magick. But – and this is the thought that occupied me – there were always those who knew nothing of tradition. Some mindless robber who would plunge his knife into my belly before he realized his mistake.
Therefore I walked with care through the dark alleyways, drawing myself up to my full height, pulling back my shoulders so as to appear tough, strong and confident. I was not armed – not even with a short knife. Who would need a knife at a wedding?
Several rats scurried across my path and I saw a corpse lying by the entrance to a short tunnel. In the bright moonlight it was easy to see that the corpse had been there for some days. His boots were gone, as was his belt.
I turned away my gaze and strode on. I never did like to look upon corpses. No man needs such a violent, visual reminder of his mortality. And there is no dignity in death. The bladder loosens,
the bowels empty and the corpse always assumes an expression of profound idiocy.
I walked on, listening for anything that might indicate a stealthy assassin creeping towards me. A foolish thing to do, for immediately the thought comes to you the ear translates every sound into a footfall, or the whisper of cloth against a wall.
I was breathing heavily when at last I came out on to a main thoroughfare I recognized.
Then the scream sounded.
I am not by nature heroic, but upbringing counts for much in a man’s life and my parents had always made it clear that a strong man must defend the weak. The cry came from a woman. It was not born of pain, but of fear, and that is a terrible sound. I swung round and ran in the direction of the cry; it was a move of stunning stupidity.