man saw those emotions flicker in his eyes. Whatever the reason, he backed a step away, speaking harshly. “Mind your own business, or you’ll find yourself in more trouble than you can handle,” and he walked back to a prey that was easier to deal with.
Ilbran stood watching the guards. Their victim was still conscious, but poor entertainment, not even trying to protect himself now. They began to drift away. Ilbran looked at them in despairing anger. They were nothing but filth, not worthy to wear the saffron robes of the polluted corpse-carriers who carried the dead out to the rocks. He slipped away down a side street. There was nausea in his belly as though he had received some of those blows. His throat burned with acid. He leaned heavily against the blank windowless side of a building, fighting back tears of rage, of self-pity, of self-contempt. He had been ready to demean himself to those brutes—present himself before them, bowing and kissing the dirt and saying—“If you please, I think I can help you with your duties.”
A man approached him, slipping silently through the night, not in Festival dress, but swaddled in a thick all-enveloping gray cloak. Ilbran recognized a grizane, and flattened himself against the wall to give him as wide a path as possible.
But the man, or otherman, as he might be, veered toward him. His footsteps padded silently; the only noise was the faint rustling of his robe. Ilbran stayed where he was, too proud to run in panic like some little child. The grizane stood in front of him, a bulky figure in the heavy robes. His hands, as they emerged from the sleeves, were tiny, wrinkled, and claw like, old-looking beyond belief. Nothing could be seen of his face but the faint glint of eyes, far back under a deep hood.
They stood like that for some time, Ilbran not daring to move, scarcely daring to breathe. At last, the grizane spoke, in an almost-whisper, although down the whole length of the street there was no one else to hear him. “Whatever choice you make, it will bring you sorrow.” Then he turned and walked swiftly away.
Chapter 3
The waves tore at the rocks, a familiar sound to Ilbran as he stood at the foot of the sea-cliff. The sheltered harbor where the king’s ships rested lay to the north. It was bright-night at its fullest, and the stars netted themselves into patterns he did not recognize. The pattern had broken in the summer heat, and turned to single stars sprinkled across the night-blue sky. But now that coolness and rain had come again, they had spread their tendrils to weave a design more intricate than spiderweb.
The grizanes studied such things, and claimed that the fate of the world was knotted into that web. Ilbran shivered suddenly, though the night was warm. He was not one who studied such things, nor did he wish to. Had the grizane read his fate that way, seen him knotted in that web like a spider’s prey?
A light flickered in the distance. Ilbran stiffened to wary attention. The light swung in great circles across the sand as it came nearer, a torch soaked in earth oil, to judge from its blue-white glory. Who carried it, soldiers?
There would be footprints leading to Ilbran’s boat. And if he were seen hiding and the girl had been found—he might lose his life—a coward’s death—to lose without ever having had a chance to win. He thought back to what the grizane had said; it rang in his ears like a curse. “Whatever choice you make, it will bring you sorrow.”
Boldness was best. He stood up before the light touched him, and called out, “Ha, friend, what are you seeking?”
The torchlight swung in a semi-circle, caught him, wavered on past, then returned. “I’m looking for a girl,” was the answer.
Ilbran kept to his pose of unconcern. “Do you think you’ll find one on the beach?”
“You never can tell. I lost one here a year ago. Said she’d never speak to me again, and she never did. If I lost one here, I might find one.”
Ilbran fought back relieved laughter. Laswit logic! He could see the other man’s face now—see the foolish amiable smile, and smell the laswit smoke that clung to his clothes. He held the torch unsteadily—it would set his hair on fire if he were not careful.
Ilbran stepped to the other man’s side, and slapped him on the shoulder. “Come! You won’t