around. He jammed his stave against the ground as a brace. And took four, long,
swift steps. He reached.
Almost gently, then, his fingers touched the sleeve and, through it, the arm of
the man. ‘Cappen Varra,’ Stulwig said.
The young man with the long black hair that rested on his shoulders turned his
head. The tone ofStulwig’s voice was evidently not threatening; for Cappen
merely paused without tensing. Nor did he make a quick reach of the hand towards
the blade at his side.
But it took several moments before he seemed to realize who his interceptor was.
Then: ‘Oh! the healer?’ He spoke questioningly.
Stulwig was apologetic. ‘I would like to speak to you, sir. Though, as I recall
it you only sought my services on one occasion. And I think somebody told me
that you had recently departed from Sanctuary for a visit to your distant home.’
The minstrel did not reply immediately. He was backing off, away from the main
stream of that endlessly moving crowd; backing towards a small space between a
fruit stand and a table on which stood a dozen small crates, each containing a
half-dozen or so small, live, edible, noisy birds.
Since Stulwig had shuffled after him, Cappen was able to say in a low voice, ‘It
was a very decisive time for me. The herbs you gave me produced a series of
regurgitations which probably saved my life. I still believe I was served
poisoned food.’
‘I need advice,’ said Alten Stulwig.
‘We can talk here,’ said Cappen.
It was not an easy story to tell. There was a rise and fall of street sounds.