Strick looked about at them. The ancient aristocracy and wealth of ancient, long-dead Ilsig. Five men who genuinely cared. Cared. These were Ilsigi
Wrigglies, to some who did not care. He saw five men with their arms outstretched to a foreigner who had come to act as advocate for the people- for their people.
“You seek to whelm me, and you succeed. In fact, you quite overwhelm me. I have not seen your villa, Izamel, but I accept. Yet we all know that I am nothing if
I do not continue to see anyone and everyone who comes to me.” He looked at
Shafralain. “You know pan of the Price I paid, my friend. The other pan is that
I Care. I must. I Care, unto agony. This is not always what I have been. There was a time when I cared about nothing save me. I was a swordman. Then I made a bargain, and I made the demanded trade, paid the Price.” He paused, looked away from their eyes. “I may have been happier before…. But there is no going back.
This is what I am. I accept your offer, provided you realize that I must maintain my shop in an accessible area, with my same people.”
“We had thought that you would move the-the shop to the villa, Spellmaster.”
That was Renn, moneyhandler.
“No. I am not the toy of Sanctuary’s aristocracy. I am all people’s advocate.”
In a low, low voice he added, “I have to be.”
Melarshain only glanced at the others. “Then we accept that, Spellmaster. The chances are excellent that we insist on, say, two more bodyguards. You employ them; we shall pay them.”
“No. I pay my people well. They are loyal to me. I shall not have them loyal to you.”