blue eyes.
‘Lalo – you are no fit companion for a drinking man!’ said the minstrel at last.
‘I will end up as sodden as you are if I stay here!’ He rose, slinging his harp
case over his shoulder, adjusting the drape of his cloak to a jauntier flare.
‘The Esmeralda’s back in port from Ilsig and points north – I’m off to hear
what news she brings. Good evening. Master Limner – I wish you joy of your
philosophy …’
Lalo remained where he was. He supposed he should go too, but where? If he went
home he would only have to face Gilla again. Idly he began to draw on the table,
his paint-stained forefinger daubing from a little pool of spilt wine. But his
memory had sought the past, when he and Gilla were painfully saving the gold
pieces that would deliver them from Sanctuary. He remembered how they had
planned what they would do with the wealth sure to come once the lords of Ranke
recognized his talent, the images of transcendent beauty he had dreamed of
creating when he no longer had to worry about tomorrow’s bread. But instead,
they had had their first child.
He looked down, and realized that his finger had been clumsily outlining the
pure profile of the girl Gilla had been so long ago. His fist smashed down on
the table, obscuring the lines in a splatter of wine, and he groaned and hid his
face in his hands.
‘Your cup is empty …’ The deep voice made a silence around them.
Lalo sighed and looked up. ‘So is my purse.’
Broad shoulders blocked the light of the hanging lamp, but as the newcomer
turned to shrug off his cloak his eyes glowed red, like those of a wolf