The Song of Andiene - By Elisa Blaisdell Page 0,17

sharpened with interest. “I thought there were but the three of you?”

“My brother’s daughter Rile has come to us,” Kare said serenely. “She does not love the city, though. I doubt that she will stay long.” There was silence again. The storm drove against the walls.

Andiene sighed again, and pushed the curtain aside. Her eyes widened as she saw Giter. She dropped her head sharply, after the fashion of country folk, that Kare had tried to teach her, muttered “Greetings,” and pulled the curtain closed again.

Brave girl! Ilbran thought, filled with relief that she had not shown her usual royal arrogance. The butcher’s eyes showed no recognition, no suspicion, but he began talking casually, not seeming to care if he got short answers, or none at all. Hammel showed no disturbance, and Kare was as serene as ever. Ilbran fretted under the strain, the desire to throw the prying intruder out, the necessity to seem unconcerned.

But he told himself that there was no need to worry, even after Giter turned the talk to the palace doings. It was still almost the only thing spoken of in the marketplace. It was natural that he would speak of it. “Did you hear?” he said, “The reward is greater again today? They still search for the young one. ‘Crimes,’ they say, but we know what that means. Where do you think she is?”

“Dead,” Hammel said. “Dead or fled from the city.”

“That’s true, I suppose. With a reward like that, no wise one,”—and he glanced around the room,—“would shelter her. I thought that some noble might have hidden her, for reasons of power, to wait and put her on the throne, marry her and rule for her.”

“That was my thought too,” said Ilbran, glad to have a chance to speak the truth.

The butcher looked at him scornfully. “That was the only reason I could bring to mind, but I suppose there might be other ones. Some people have strange ideas—like honor. I was never able to know what they meant by honor. It certainly won’t feed you—or patch the roof, either.”

That cut too near the bone; there was no mistaking it. Ilbran rose and walked across the room to stand beside the doorway. Fel bristled up his neck hair and growled at the menace in the air. The blood left Giter’s face, and he laid his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “The storm is weaker now; I think I will return home.” His voice trembled slightly. Ilbran did not move.

Giter looked around him doubtfully. Kare had laid her lace aside; she sat quietly. Hammel leaned forward with his hands gripping the arms of his chair. Ilbran tried to seem at ease, leaning against the wall, but his hand lay near his dagger. Giter looked uneasily around the room.

“I know a little of your kind of honor. To kill a guest would be a crime,” he said.

Ilbran watched the butcher in silence. In truth, he did not know what he would do, or what he would be able to do. Giter had made it clear that he knew their secret; he could not be trusted with it. The answer was obvious; the cliff was steep; the tide was full; the authorities would not bestir themselves over the death of a shopkeeper.

But he had never killed a man, and the thought sickened him. In a fair fight it would be possible, but this fight would be too fair, too evenly matched. If I lose, then what becomes of my family?

The butcher might be three times his age, fat and prosperous, but there was strength under his fat. Ilbran had seen him take two ruffians, disarm them both, and beat their heads together, when they tried to rob him. Now he was alert and on the defensive, terrified, by the looks of him, but more dangerous because of it.

Giter’s eyes flickered from the blocked doorway to the far too small window. He spoke coaxingly. “Come now, you know that I would not betray you.”

“Not even for money? We know that you are a poor man.” Ilbran’s voice was filled with heavy sarcasm.

“Poor I may be, but there are a few things that are beyond me, and you have been my friends. I am your guest, and helpless. Tell me, what assurance could I give you, that I would not betray you?”

“What vows do you hold sacred? None,” said Ilbran, but he was filled with a hope that this day might not end in killing. He