at him that afternoon. She was right. He was despicable – wine had bloated his
belly as his ginger hair had thinned, and the promises he had once made her were
as empty as his purse.
Cappen Varra tipped back his dark head and laughed. Lalo caught the gleam of his
white teeth in the guttering lamplight, a flicker of silver from the amulet at
his throat, the elegant shape of his head against the chiaroscuro of the Inn.
Dim figures beyond him turned at the sound, then returned to the even murkier
business that had brought them there.
‘Far be it from me to argue with a fellow-artist -‘ said Cappen Varra, ‘but your
wife reminds me of a rhinoceros! Remember when you got paid for decorating
Master Regli’s foyer, and we went to the Green Grape to celebrate? I saw her
when she came after you… Now I know why you do your serious drinking here!’
The minstrel was still laughing. Suddenly angry, Lalo glared at him.
‘Can you afford to mock me? You are still young. You think it doesn’t matter if
you tailor your songs to the taste of these fleas in the armpit of the Empire,
because you still carry the real poetry in your heart, along with the faces of
the beautiful women you wrote it for! Once already you have pawned your harp for
bread. When you are my age, will you sell it for the price of a drink, and sit
weeping because the dreams still live in your heart but you have no words to
describe them anymore?’
Lalo reached blindly for his tankard, drained it, set it down on the scarred
table. Cappen Varra was drinking too, the laughter for a moment gone from his