off. I’ll have you back sweating again before the first raindrops fall.’
Illyra watched them leave. Fear filled the forge, fear left over from a dimly
remembered childhood. Visions she had shared with no one, not even Dubro.
Visions not even the S’danzo gifts could resolve into truth or illusion. She
caught up her curly black hair with a set of combs and went back inside.
When the bed was concealed under layers of gaudy, bright cloth and her youth
under layers of kohl, Illyra was ready to greet the townsfolk. She had not
exaggerated her complaints about the oranges. It was just as well that Haakon’s
supply was diminishing. For two days now she had had no querents until late in
the day. Lonely and bored she watched the incense smoke curl into the darkness
of the room, losing herself in its endless variations.
‘Illyra?’
A man drew back the heavy cloth curtain. Illyra did not recognize his voice. His
silhouette revealed only that he was as tall as Dubro, though not as broad.
‘Illyra?-1 was told I’d find Illyra, the crone, here.’
She froze. Any querent might have cause to resent a S’danzo prophecy, regardless
of its truth, and plot revenge against the seeress. Only recently she had been
threatened by a man in the red-and-gold livery of the Palace. Her hand slid
under the folds of the tablecloth and eased a tiny dagger loose from a sheath
nailed to the table leg. –
‘What do you want?’ She held her voice steady; greeting a paying querent rather
than a thug.
‘To talk with you. May I come in?’ He paused, waiting for a reply and when there