Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [233]
This uncompromising policy meant that before Hakiem could settle in for the day’s main activity—getting drunk on no more than two mugs of wine—he needed to procure a small handful of copper padpols, or padpools as the little copper coins were known in those days. He could have gone to work for any number of merchants or artisans; Hakiem was literate in Sanctuary’s two main tongues; Rankan and Ilsigi, and had a keen head for numbers, especially the numbers of profit. But, as he would explain to anyone who asked, working for someone else’s establishment inevitably led to expectations and disappointment; and working for himself would have been worse.
Hakiem could have gone begging, except begging in Sanctuary meant giving away two coins for every three collected: one to whoever owned the spot where the beggar begged and the second to Moruth, the self-styled beggar king from Downwind. Hakiem knew the cut of Moruth’s sails well enough to steer clear of him. Besides, though less than handsome, Hakiem wasn’t disfigured, deformed, or simpleminded; and he had too much pride, too little patience for sitting behind an empty cup begging strangers to drop a coin in.
He chose a more active path to his daily encounter with the Unicorn’s wine. Each morning, well after dawn, Hakiem would hie himself to wherever the largest crowds of Sanctuary were apt to congregate, settle his rump on the cushion he invariably carried under the folds of his wrinkled robe, and proclaim:
“Stories for the day. Stories of lovers. Stories of heroes. Stories for children, for women, and men. Histories and fantasies. Epical or poetical. Pay what you please—satisfaction guaranteed!”
Standing in the shadows of a rope-maker’s stall, Molin Torchholder watched and listened as Sanctuary’s only successful storyteller gathered his small crowd. Hakiem baited his audience with snippets from his best-known tales: the wedding of Ils and Shipri or the wedding of Savankala and Sabellia; the history of the world and the history of Sanctuary; the rise and fall of Jubal and his hawkmasks, the rise and devoutly hoped for fall of Tempus and the Stepsons. The pudgy little man got his audience vying against itself—a padpol for my favorite story; no, two padpols for mine; three, then four, until, finally, when Hakiem stood to earn seven padpols—more than enough for his daily libations at the Unicorn—for whichever story he told, he began the tale of the old fisherman and the giant crab for six padpols, divvied among his audience.
The tale of the fisherman’s quest was a good story, a true one, and a short one. Molin had scarcely begun to sweat within his woolen robes when the audience dispersed. Hakiem collected his cushion and his coins. He began the waddle from the wharf where he’d told the story to the Unicorn.
Molin fell in step beside the storyteller.
“My Lord Archpriest! To what do I owe the honor of your august presence?” Hakiem bowed with a flourish that was more insolence than honor.
“Lord Molin will be sufficient. I would like to buy you a mug of the finest wine the Vulgar Unicorn can offer a thirsty man. I have a business proposition to discuss with you.”
“If you’re buying, then the finest wine can found on the Street of Red Lanterns—”
“But the houses are no place for men like ourselves to discuss business.”
“You wish to have business with me?” The storyteller’s mockery became concern. “At the Unicorn?”
“Stranger things have happened at the Unicorn. Will you accept my offer?”
“Depends on what it is, Lord Molin,” the storyteller said, but he led the way to the Maze tavern.
Molin ordered a table jug of the Unicorn’s best—and only—vintage. He paid for it with Imperial silver and left the change—a heap of Ilsigi padpools—on the table. He offered a toast—“May Anen see you home by starlight!” that brought a smile to the storyteller’s lips.