and a single bite taken out of the bread. Seth’s coat hung by itself on the hook.
Outside, the night air had turned bitter cold. Buildings loomed on either side, shop shutters were closed, and only some light leaked through the upper windows, where people were not yet abed. Mystified, Seth looked up at clear sky, at brilliant stars, at the moon, slim as an apple paring. She heard a distant laugh. She wrapped her muffler around her face and made her way towards Travesty, forging a meandering path between patches of ice and mounds of horse dung. She considered how differently people lived in the city and wondered whether she would ever get used to it. Then she became aware that a low sound she had been hearing was a melody, and as she emerged from the street into the square, she realized the singing came from Travesty. That horrible building crouched in the night like a monstrous toad with numerous glowing eyes where a few windows stood unshuttered. A dark, swaying chain wrapped the base of the building, decorated here and there by lantern light and puffs of white breath that glittered and dispersed in the patches of light. The gathered people were singing an old lullaby.
Blow, wind, blow—for there is no cold
when the fire on the hearth burns so brightly.
Sleep, child, sleep—for your fears will keep
when the fire on the hearth burns so brightly.
Someone called out in an affectionate, if drunken slur, “Sleep, Karis, sleep!”
Seth stood still, amazed. She couldn’t tell how many people had gathered there, but those who had been in the tavern seemed to have collected a number of others on the way to Travesty, so now there were more than enough to entirely encircle the massive building. The people of Watfield were watching Karis’s house tonight.
The Paladin at the door was the same one with whom Seth had traveled from Basdown. She had been a somber companion, but she was laughing as she let Seth in. “Is that lullaby working?” Seth asked her.
“Surely it must!” said the Paladin. “Anyway, I hope so. Are you hungry? Garland always sets food out for the night people.”
“I’ve got a headache—I’m going to bed.”
“It’ll feel better soon,” said the Paladin.
Seth doubted it. But she had not even reached the staircase when she felt the pain disperse so abruptly that she mistook the emptying sensation in her skull for a wave of dizziness, and grabbed a doorway to keep from falling over. Someone spoke behind her. “Seth—who are those people? Do you know?”
The G’deon’s wife had a distinctive way of articulating—saying each word so cleanly and precisely that it sounded unfriendly to a Basdowner’s ears. Seth said, “I think they’re just regular people. Should I tell them to go away?”
“Could you?” said Zanja. “Could anyone?” She was laughing.
“I may be responsible—”
“I hope they come back tomorrow night. Karis fell asleep before they finished the first song.” Zanja stepped forward and touched her arm. “Let’s get some pie.”
Another friend, Seth thought, surprised. Zanja was usually closeted with Emil or Karis, but when Seth did see her, usually in the massive dining room, she had seemed distant and preoccupied. Seth walked with her through the maze of hallways, following the route the Paladins kept lit with hanging lanterns. In the kitchen the cookfires had been damped, but the fireplace bricks continued to release their warmth. Suspended over the glowing coals a couple of giant stewpots steamed quietly, giving forth the delicious scent of chicken and onions. Several dried-apple pies were set on a worktable along with a neat stack of pottery plates, and someone had already eaten a slice out of one. Garland’s pies were unbelievably good; Seth doubted anything would be left by morning. Zanja cut a slice for each of them, and they stood at the table, eating with their fingers, talking—not about assassins, or Clement, or tomorrow’s funerals, or the
Outside, the night air had turned bitter cold. Buildings loomed on either side, shop shutters were closed, and only some light leaked through the upper windows, where people were not yet abed. Mystified, Seth looked up at clear sky, at brilliant stars, at the moon, slim as an apple paring. She heard a distant laugh. She wrapped her muffler around her face and made her way towards Travesty, forging a meandering path between patches of ice and mounds of horse dung. She considered how differently people lived in the city and wondered whether she would ever get used to it. Then she became aware that a low sound she had been hearing was a melody, and as she emerged from the street into the square, she realized the singing came from Travesty. That horrible building crouched in the night like a monstrous toad with numerous glowing eyes where a few windows stood unshuttered. A dark, swaying chain wrapped the base of the building, decorated here and there by lantern light and puffs of white breath that glittered and dispersed in the patches of light. The gathered people were singing an old lullaby.
Blow, wind, blow—for there is no cold
when the fire on the hearth burns so brightly.
Sleep, child, sleep—for your fears will keep
when the fire on the hearth burns so brightly.
Someone called out in an affectionate, if drunken slur, “Sleep, Karis, sleep!”
Seth stood still, amazed. She couldn’t tell how many people had gathered there, but those who had been in the tavern seemed to have collected a number of others on the way to Travesty, so now there were more than enough to entirely encircle the massive building. The people of Watfield were watching Karis’s house tonight.
The Paladin at the door was the same one with whom Seth had traveled from Basdown. She had been a somber companion, but she was laughing as she let Seth in. “Is that lullaby working?” Seth asked her.
“Surely it must!” said the Paladin. “Anyway, I hope so. Are you hungry? Garland always sets food out for the night people.”
“I’ve got a headache—I’m going to bed.”
“It’ll feel better soon,” said the Paladin.
Seth doubted it. But she had not even reached the staircase when she felt the pain disperse so abruptly that she mistook the emptying sensation in her skull for a wave of dizziness, and grabbed a doorway to keep from falling over. Someone spoke behind her. “Seth—who are those people? Do you know?”
The G’deon’s wife had a distinctive way of articulating—saying each word so cleanly and precisely that it sounded unfriendly to a Basdowner’s ears. Seth said, “I think they’re just regular people. Should I tell them to go away?”
“Could you?” said Zanja. “Could anyone?” She was laughing.
“I may be responsible—”
“I hope they come back tomorrow night. Karis fell asleep before they finished the first song.” Zanja stepped forward and touched her arm. “Let’s get some pie.”
Another friend, Seth thought, surprised. Zanja was usually closeted with Emil or Karis, but when Seth did see her, usually in the massive dining room, she had seemed distant and preoccupied. Seth walked with her through the maze of hallways, following the route the Paladins kept lit with hanging lanterns. In the kitchen the cookfires had been damped, but the fireplace bricks continued to release their warmth. Suspended over the glowing coals a couple of giant stewpots steamed quietly, giving forth the delicious scent of chicken and onions. Several dried-apple pies were set on a worktable along with a neat stack of pottery plates, and someone had already eaten a slice out of one. Garland’s pies were unbelievably good; Seth doubted anything would be left by morning. Zanja cut a slice for each of them, and they stood at the table, eating with their fingers, talking—not about assassins, or Clement, or tomorrow’s funerals, or the
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