The value of each orange was such that Haakon would ignore the unwritten code of
the bazaar and reserve the best of his limited supply for his patrons at the
Governor’s Palace. It had happened, however, that two of the precious fruits had
been bruised. Haakon decided not to sell that pair at all but to share them with
his friends the bazaar-smith, Dubro, and his youngwife, the half-S’danzo Illyra.
He scored the peel deftly with an inlaid silver tool meant especially for this
one purpose. When his fingers moved away the pebbly rind fell back from the
deep-coloured pulp and Illyra gasped with delight. She took one of the pulp
sections and drizzled the juice onto the back of her hand, then lapped it up
with the tip of her tongue: the mannerly way to savour the delicate flavour of
the blood-red juice.
‘These are the best; better than last year’s,’ she exclaimed with a smile. ‘You
say that every year, Illyra. Time dulls your memory; the taste brings it back.’
Haakon sucked the juice off his hand with less delicacy: his lips showed the
Stain of Enlibar. ‘And, speaking of time dulling your memory – Dubro, do you
recall, about fifteen years back, a death-pale boy with straw hair and wild eyes
running about the town?’
Haakon watched as Dubro closed his eyes and sank back in thought. The smith
would have been a raw youth then himself, but he had always been slow,
deliberate, and utterly reliable in his judgements. Illyra would have been a
skirt-clinging toddler that long ago so Haakon did not think to ask her, nor to