enriched by his work on the temple for the Rankan gods. In fact the first
sitting was to have been this morning. But yesterday’s summons had taken
precedence; and so it was that Lalo, uncomfortable in worn velveteen breeches
that were loose in the shanks and pinched his waist, his embroidered wedding
vest, and a shirt which Gilla had starched so that it scraped his neck every
time he turned his head, waited to be interviewed for the honour of decorating
Molin Torch-holder’s feasting hall.
A door opened. Lalo heard light footsteps above the plash and gurgle of the
fountain, and a young woman with precisely coiled fair hair beckoned to him.
‘My Lady?’ he hesitated.
‘I am the Lady Danlis, ancilla to the mistress of this house,’ she answered
briskly. ‘Come with me …’
I should have known, thought Lalo, after hearing Cappen Varra sing her
praises/or so long. But that had been some time ago. As he followed her
straight-backed progress along the corridor Lalo wondered what vision had made
Cappen fall in love with her, and why it had failed.
A startled slave looked up and hastily began gathering together his rags and
jars of wax paste as Danlis ushered Lalo through a door of gilded cedarwood into
the Hall. Lalo stopped short, taken aback by the abundance of colour and texture
in the room. Figured silken rugs littered the parquet floor; gilded grape vines
laden with amethyst fruit twisted about the marble columns that strained against
the beamed ceiling; and the walls were draped with patterned damask from the