that had sprung up among his audience, ‘I’m in the middle of a story.’
‘But you don’t understand,’ Hort insisted, ‘she wants to offer you a position in
her court!’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ Hakiem flared back, swelling in his anger without
rising from his seat. ‘I already am employed … and will be employed until this
story is done. These good people have commissioned me to entertain them and I
intend to do just that until they are satisfied. You and your fish-eyed friends
there will just have to wait.’
With that, Hakiem returned his attention to his audience, ignoring Hort’s
discomfiture. The fact that he had not really wished to start this particular
session was unimportant, as was the fact that service with the leader of the
Beysib government-in-exile would undoubtedly be lucrative. Any storyteller, much
less Sanctuary’s best storyteller, did not shirk his professional duty in the
midst of a tale, however tempting the counter-offer might be.
Gone were the days when he would scuttle off as soon as a few coins were tossed
his way. The old storyteller’s pride had grown along with his wealth, and Hakiem
was no more exempt than any other citizen of Sanctuary from the effects of the
Face of Chaos.
HIGH MOON
Janet Morris
Just south of Caravan Square and the bridge over the White Foal River, the
Nisibisi witch had settled in. She had leased the isolated complex – one three
storied ‘manor house’ and its outbuildings -as much because its grounds extended
to the White Foal’s edge (rivers covered a multitude of disposal problems) as