There was a little muttering in the tavern, but they were not unaccustomed to
Lythande’s invisible comings and goings. The young man raised eyes which were
surprisingly blue beneath the black hair elaborately curled above his brow. He
was slender and agile, and Lythande marked the rapier at his side, which looked
well handled, and the amulet, in the form of a coiled snake, at his throat. The
young man said, ‘Who are you, who has the habit of coming and going into thin
air like that?’
‘One who compliments your skill at song.’ Lythande flung a coin to the tapster’s
boy. ‘Will you drink?’
‘A minstrel never refuses such an invitation. Singing is dry work.’ But when the
drink was brought, he said, ‘Not drinking with me, then?’
‘No man has ever seen Lythande eat or drinK,’ muttered one of the men in the
circle round them.
‘Why, then, I hold that unfriendly,’ cried the young minstrel. ‘A friendly drink
between comrades shared is one thing; but I am no servant to sing for pay or to
drink except as a friendly gesture!’
Lythande shrugged, and the blue star above the high brow began to shimmer and
give forth blue light. The onlookers slowly edged backward, for when a wizard
who wore the blue star was angered, bystanders did well to be out of the way.
The minstrel set down the lute, so it would be well out of range if he must leap
to his feet. Lythande knew, by the excruciating slowness of his movements and
great care, that he had already shared a good many drinks with chance-met
comrades. But the minstrel’s hand did not go to his sword-hilt but instead