‘Once,’.
‘And that you have been trying to write it down ever since.’
‘And failing. What of it?’
‘It may be that expositional prose isn’t right for the telling of that story, Duiker.’
‘Oh?’
The bard set the tankard to one side and slowly leaned forward, fixing the his-torian with grey eyes. ‘Because, sir, you see their faces.’
Anguish welled up inside Duiker and he looked away, hiding his suddenly suddenly trembling hands. ‘You don’t know me well enough for such matters,’ he said in a rasp.
‘Rubbish. This isn’t a personal theme here, historian. It’s two professionals discussing their craft. It’s me, a humble bard, offering my skills to unlock your soul and all it contains-everything that’s killing it, moment by moment. You can’t find your voice for this. Use mine.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ Duiker asked. ‘Like some vulture eager to lap up my tears?’
Brows lifted. ‘You are an accident. My reasons for being here lie… elsewhere. Even if I could explain more, I would not. I cannot. In the meantime, Duiker, let us fashion an epic to crush the hearts of a thousand generations.’
And now, yes, tears rolled down the lined tracks of the historian’s face. And it took all the courage he still possessed to then nod.
The bard leaned back, retrieving his tankard. ‘It begins with you,’ he said. ‘And it ends with you. Your eyes to witness, your thoughts alone. Tell me of no one’s mind, presume nothing of their workings. You and I, we tell nothing, we but show.’
‘Yes.’ Duiker looked up, back into those eyes that seemed to contain-and hold sure-the grief of the world. ‘What’s your name, bard?’
‘Call me Fisher.’
Chaur was curled up at the foot of the bed, snoring, twitching like a dreaming dog. Picker observed him for a moment before settling back on the mattress. How had she got here? Was that raw tenderness between her legs what she thought it was and if so then did Barathol remember as little of it as she did? Oh, too com-plicated to work out. She wasn’t ready to be thinking of all those things, she wasn’t ready to be thinking at all.
She heard someone moving down the hall. Then a muted conversation, punc-tuated by a throaty laugh that did not belong to Blend or anyone else Picker knew, meaning it was probably that woman, Scillara. Picker gasped slightly at a sudden recollection of holding the woman’s breasts in her hands and hearing that laugh but up close and a lot more triumphant.
Gods, did I sleep with them all? Damn that Quorl Milk!
A wheeze from Chaur and she started guiltily-but no, she’d not do any such thing to an innocent like him. There were limits-there had to be limits.