closed like a fist over the amulet in the form of a snake. ‘
‘You are like no man I have ever met before,’ he observed mildly, and Lythande,
feeling inside the little ripple, nerve-long, that told a magician he was in the
presence of spell-casting, hazarded quickly that the amulet was one of those
which would not protect its master unless the wearer first stated a set number
of truths – usually three or five – about the owner’s attacker or foe. Wary, but
amused, Lythande said, ‘A true word. Nor am I like any man you will ever meet,
live you never so long, minstrel.’
The minstrel saw, beyond the angry blue glare of the star, a curl of friendly
mockery in Lythande’s mouth. He said, letting the amulet go, ‘And I wish you no
ill; and you wish me none, and those are true sayings too, wizard, hey? And
there’s an end of that. But although perhaps you are like to no other, you are
not the only wizard I have seen in Sanctuary who bears a blue star about his
forehead.’
Now the blue star blazed rage, but not for the minstrel. They both knew it. The
crowd around them had all mysteriously discovered that they had business
elsewhere. The minstrel looked at the empty benches.
‘I must go elsewhere to sing for my supper, it seems.’
‘I meant you no offence when I refused to share a drink,’ said Lythande. ‘A
magician’s vow is not as lightly overset as a lute. Yet I may guest-gift you
with dinner and drink in plenty without loss of dignity, and in return ask a
service of a friend, may I not?’
‘Such is the custom of my country. Cappen Varra thanks you, magician.’