and serving as Hakiem’s self-proclaimed herald. Though the money from the more
fashionable sides of Sanctuary was nice, the storyteller often longed for the
days of anonymity when he’d had to rely on his own wits and skills to peddle his
stories. Perhaps it was for this reason he clung to some of his old haunts in
the Bazaar and the Maze.
‘Here he is!’ the youth proclaimed to his rapidly assembling audience. ‘The only
man in Sanctuary who didn’t run and hide when the Beysib fleet arrived in our
harbours.’
Hakiem cleared his throat noisily. ‘Do I know you, young man?’
A rude snicker rippled through the crowd as the youth flushed with
embarrassment.
‘S … Surely you remember. It’s me, Mikali. Yesterday …’
‘if you know me,’ the elder interrupted, ‘you also know I don’t tell stories to
preserve my health, nor do I tolerate gawkers who block the view of paying
customers.’
‘Of course.’ Mikali beamed. In a flash he had produced a handkerchief of fine
silk. Cupping it in his hands, he began moving through the assemblage,
collecting coins. As might be expected, he was loathe to undertake this chore
silently.
‘A gift for Sanctuary’s greatest storyteller… Hear of the landing from the
lips of the one who welcomed them to our shore … Gifts … What’s that?
Coppers?! For Hakiem? Dig deeper into that purse or move along! That’s the
bravest man in town sitting there … Thank you … Gifts for the bravest man in
Sanctuary …’
In a nonce a double handful of coins had found their way into the handkerchief,
and Mikali triumphantly presented it to Hakiem with a flourish. The storyteller