glance her way while he awaited Dubro’s reply. Had he done so he would have seen
her tremble and a blood-red drop of juice disappear into the fine dust beneath
her chair.
‘Yes,’ Dubro said without opening his eyes, ‘I remember one as that: quiet, pale
… nasty. Lived a few years with the garrison, then disappeared.’
‘Would you know him again after all this time?’
‘Nay. He was that sort of lad who looks childish until he becomes a man, then
one never sees the child in his face again.’
‘Would you reckon “Walegrin” to be his name?* Ignored, beside them, Illyra bit
down on her tongue and stifled sudden panic before it became apparent.
‘It might be … nay, I could not be sure. I doubt as I ever spoke to the lad by
name.’ Haakon shrugged as if the questions had been idle conversation. Illyra
ate her remaining share of the oranges, then went into the ramshackle stall
where she lit three cones of incense before returning to the men with a ewer of
water.
‘Illyra, I’ve just asked your husband if he’d come with me to the Palace. I’ve
got two sacks of oranges to deliver for the Prince and another set of arms would
make the work easier. But he says he won’t leave you here alone.’
Illyra hesitated. The memories Haakon had aroused were still fresh in her mind,
but all that had been fifteen years ago, as he had said. She stared at the
clouded-over sky.
‘No, there’ll be no problem. It may rain today arid, anyway, you’ve taken
everyone’s money this week with your oranges,’ she said with forced brightness.
‘Well then, you see, Dubro – there’s no problem. Bank the fires and we’ll be