night by then, and I do not want to involve him in this.’ Walegrin nodded
without argument. ‘I understand. I’ll come by at midnight. He should be long
asleep by then, unless you keep him awake.’ Illyra sensed it would be useless to
argue. She watched silently as he swept the pile of baubles, the knife, and the
shard into one pouch, wincing slightly as he dribbled the last beads from her
sight.
‘As is your custom, payment will not be made until the question is answered.’
Illyra nodded. Walegrin had spent many years around her mother learning many of
the S’danzo disciplines and rousing his father’s explosive jealousy. The leather
webbing of his kilt creaked as he stood up. The moment for farewell came and
passed. He left the stall in silence.
A path cleared when Walegrin strode through a crowd. He noticed it here, in this
bazaar where his memories were of scrambling through the aisles, taunted,
cursed, fighting, and thieving. In any other place he accepted the deference
except here, which had once been his home for a while.
One of the few men in the throng who could match his height, a dark man in a
smith’s apron, blocked his way a moment. Walegrin studied him obliquely and
guessed he was Dubro. He had seen the smith’s short aquiline companion several
times in other roles about the town without learning the man’s true name or
calling; they each glanced to one side to avoid a chance meeting.
At the entrance to the bazaar, a tumble-down set of columns still showing traces
of the Ilsig kings who had them built, a man crept out of the shadows and fell