greater than the Sanctuary garrison could muster, and only the fact that the
foreigners had made no claim to the governance of the city itself kept it in the
hands of the Prince and his ministers. But the threat was always there, potent,
lending a new spice of danger to the customary activities of the people of the
city.
Scratching again, the storyteller frowned into the morning brightness, and not
all his wrinkles were from squinting. It was almost… no, it -was too good to
be true. Hakiem had too many years of anguish behind him not to look a gift
horse in the mouth. All gifts had a price, no matter how well-hidden or
inconsequential it might seem at the time. It only stood to reason that the
sudden prosperity brought by the newcomers would exact a price from the hell
hole known as Sanctuary. Exactly how high or terrible a price the storyteller
was currently unable to puzzle out. (There were still hawks in Sanctuary, though
not so easily brought to hand … and one hawkmaster in particular.) Sharper
eyes than Hakiem’s would be scrutinizing the effects and long-range implications
of the new arrivals. Still, it would do him well to keep his ears open and …
‘Hakiem! Here he is! I found him! Hakiem!’
The storyteller groaned inwardly as a brightly bedecked teenager leapt up and
down, flapping his arms to reveal Hakiem’s refuge to his comrades. Fame, too,
had its price … and this particular one was named Mikali, a young fop whose
main vocation seemed to be spending his father’s wealth on fine clothing. That,