an easy arch towards the storyteller’s table.
Hakiem’s hand moved like a flicker of light and the coin disappeared in mid
flight. His drowsy manner remained unchanged.
‘That’s payment enough for a hundred stories, old man,’ Jubal rumbled softly,
‘but tell them somewhere else … and about someone else.’
Moving with quiet dignity, the storyteller rose to his feet, bestowed a
withering gaze on both of them, and stalked regally from the room. His bowl of
wine had disappeared with his departure.
In the brief moment that their eyes met, Zalbar had felt an intense intelligence
and was certain that the old man had penetrated both mask and cloak to coldly
observe his true identity. Hastily revising his opinion of the gaunt tale
-spinner, the Hell Hound recalled Jubal’s description of an informant whom
people forgot could hear as well as see and knew whose spying had truly saved
his life.
The slaver sank down at the recently vacated table and immediately received two
unordered goblets of expensive qualis. Settling next to him, Zalbar noted that
this table had a clear view of all entrances and exits of the tavern and his
estimation of Hakiem went up yet another notch.
‘If I had thought of it sooner, I would have suggested that your man on the
rooftop join us,’ the Hell Hound commented. ‘I feel I owe him a drink of thanks.’
‘That man is a woman, Moria; she works the darkness better than I do … and
without the benefits of protective coloration.’
‘Well, I’d still like to thank her.’
‘I’d advise against it.’ The slaver grinned. ‘She hates Rankans, and the Hell