robes. “Here,” he said, setting it on the table. “It isn’t much, but I’d like to
help with what little I can afford.”
The pouch sat untouched.
“She’ll not take charity from cityfolks.”
For a moment the diminutive storyteller swelled to twice his normal appearance.
“Then you give it to her,” he hissed, “or give it to those who are supporting
her … or rub it in a fish barrel until it reeks-” He caught himself, suddenly
aware of the curious stares from the neighboring tables. In a flash the humble
storyteller had returned. “Omat, my friend,” he said quietly, “you know me. I am
no more of the city than I am a fisherman or a soldier. Don’t let an old woman’s
pride stand between her and a few honest coppers. They’ll spend as well as any
other when pushed across the board of a fishstall.”
Slowly the fisherman picked up the pouch, then locked eyes with Hakiem. “Why?”
The storyteller shrugged. “The tale of the Old Man and the giant crab has paid
me well. I would not like the taste of wine bought with that money while his
woman was without.”
Omat nodded and the purse disappeared from view.
It was dusk when Hakiem emerged from the Wine Barrel. Lengthening shadows hid
the decay he had noticed earlier, though it was also true that his outlook had
improved after his gift had been accepted. On an impulse, the storyteller
decided to walk along the piers before returning to the Maze.
The rich smells of the ocean filled his nostrils and a slight breeze snatched at
his robes as he digested Omat’s story. The disappearance of the Old Man and his