Land's End, Part 5
The fire leapt in the stone fireplace, warming the hearth and men and women sitting next to it. The minstrel was building to a climax and the listeners were clinging to his tale with bated breath. Even Gilbetron couldn’t help but stop from time to time to listen to the story, even though it was one he had heard dozens of times before. The minstrel was an excellent storyteller, far better than most of the men in Gleemens’ Guild.
The crystal was still glowing, its pulsating rhythm quickening slightly as he approached the fireside. It seemed to brighten when pointed toward one of the dark figures, a woman warming her hands on the fire. He recognized her. She was the girl from before, the one who had just about tripped trying to get past him into the common room.
He slipped the crystal back into his pocket and took a seat at a nearby table, carefully choosing a spot where he could keep his eye on the girl without being obvious about it. He made sure to cheer with the rest of the supper crowd as the story swelled. With all eyes on the bard, nobody paid him any mind, though. He could have stumbled in drunk as a hinterbull and drawn less ateention.
Just then, the young woman shifted, picking up the bottom of her travelling cloak and standing. As she walked past him, so close she almost brushed the back of his wooden chair, he reached out his hand and encircled her wrist. She let out a surprised yelp, not so loud to draw notice, and tried pulling free.
“Let go of me, peasant,” she growled. “If you don’t, I’ll have you flogged in the public square for all to see. Is that what you want?”
Gilbetron blinked in surprise. A noblewoman? The possibility had never crossed his mind. He let go, waiting for her to flee out of the common room, but instead she stood back and tried to get a clear view of his face.
“I apologize, my lady,” he said. “I meant nothing but to ask you a few questions.” When he leaned out of the shadow and into the light of the fire, she gasped. “I assure you there is no malice intended,” he finished.
Momentarily, she was rendered speechless.
“What House are you from, my lady?”
“Forgive me, Lord Gilbetron,” she breathed. “I should not have spoken so harshly.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “You had every right to question me. I acted boorishly. It is I who should apologize.” He lowered his head gracefully, then lifted it again to see the colour had returned to her face. “You are not from around here,” he noted.
She nodded. “That’s right. My father is — was — Sir Isaac Babcock, Steward of Nabon. My mother is Mistress Arynel, the Keeper of the Royal Archives. She was also nobleborn and is revered by the people of the Delta.”
“Yes, you have Deltan eyes, clear and green.”
She blushed. “You flatter me, Lord. Surely you do not mean to do so.”
“Well, I certainly don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said. “As I said, I have some questions, though I’m not sure if you’ll be able to answer any of them. You may find them strange.”
The crowd cheered behind them as the minstrel finished his story. “But not here. Follow me upstairs and I’ll be sure Master Brombly brings us up some tea to help settle our stomachs. Surely after a long day’s ride, you could use some rest.”
She smiled at him, though tried to hide it by looking down to study the floor. “Yes, Lord. Of course. Lead the way.”