them from it. Without fully intending to intervene, Lythande stepped frem the
shadows, and the rich voice that had made the prentice-magicians in the outer
court of the Blue Star call Lythande ‘minstrel’ rather than ‘magician’, rang
out: ‘By Shipri the All-Mother, release that woman!’
Rabben whirled. ‘By the nine-hundred-and-ninety-ninth eye of Ils! Lythande!’
‘Are there not enough women in the Street of Red Lanterns, that you must
mishandle girl-children in the Street of Temples?’ For Lythande could see how
young she was, the thin arms and childish legs and ankles, the breasts not yet
full-formed beneath the dirty, torn tunic.
Rabben turned on Lythande and sneered, ‘You were always squeamish, shyryu. No
woman walks here unless she is for sale. Do you want her for yourself? Have you
tired of your fat madame in the Aphrodisia House?’
‘You will not take her name into your mouth, shyryu!’
‘So tender for the honour of a harlot?’
Lythande ignored that. ‘Let the girl go, or stand to my challenge.’
Rabben’s star shot lightnings; he shoved the girl to one side. She fell
nerveless to the pavement and lay without moving. ‘She’ll stay there until we’ve
done. Did you think she could run away while we fought? Come to think of it, I
never did see you with a woman, Lythande – is that your Secret, Lythande, that
you’ve no use for women?’
Lythande maintained an impassive face; but whatever came, Rabben must not be
allowed to pursue that line. ‘You may couple like an animal in the streets of
Sanctuary, Rabben, but I do not. Will you yield her up, or fight?’