We have better served the pilgrims than the priests in the temple not too far away. Caravanners wrestled with the tavern goblet-wenches or brawled among themselves with goad-knives. A sprinkling of omen-rovers hawked love-drafts, juggled gyro-balls, or cast plot-lines from the hands of any who wished to know their fate. The tavern’s beam-dancer collected lovesick stares and ration-silvers in equal amounts, while the man with the trained lixus made it beg for tidbit-coppers. Her glance suddenly riveted upon a man seated in an alcove. He reposed with the powerful ease of a skilled warrior, but wore the garb of a song-weaver, resting his battered but well-crafted song-loom in the curve of his left arm. As she made her way to the alcove, she saw that his golden eyes had the fixed stare of blindness, and where his skin was unscarred, it was deeply browned. His garments and boots, grayed nondescript by constant travel, almost concealed his refined, durable form that moved like a jessed jerfalcon.
