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straight and perfect, and she exuded the cultured mannerisms and grace
of a woman of station, which she had indeed been scant months before.
Mariat had been impressed with her first sight of Sanctuary: the city's
tall new walls shining in the morning light. Now she was once again
faced with nagging doubts, which nibbled like little demons at the back of
her mind, as she surveyed the chaos and pandemonium of the Bazaar. It
was an environment alien to a woman from the upper strata of Rankan
society.
"Ah, there you are, madame," called a friendly and pleasant baritone
voice which Mariat had come to love during her journey to this place.
She turned and saw the minstrel Sinn heading toward her through the
crowd. As he squeezed between two fat merchants haggling over the
price of a chicken, his hand deftly intercepted a street urchin reaching for
his purse. The bearded, brown-haired bard looked at the quaking youth
with mild amusement. The young beggar and thief was astonished at the
quickness with which the man had caught him, and now fully expected to
be turned over to the watch for due punishment. But Sinn merely smiled,
and forced the boy's palm open. The minstrel inserted a silver piece into
the urchin's hand, then closed the boy's fingers over it.
"Off with you now," the bard said, "and don't be telling any of your
friends that I'm an easy mark, or I'll find you and nail your hide to the
city wall."
As the minstrel let the boy go and watched the urchin disappear into
the crowd, Mariat smiled and thought how typical such generosity was of
the man called Sinn. She and her grandchildren had come to know and
love him as he traveled with them in the caravan from Ranke to Sanctu-
ary.
The bard had taken a liking to the three children, and had played with
them and sung them to sleep every night. Mariat was glad, for he was the
only positive masculine influence that the children had had since their
own father, her son, had died suddenly and violently. For some reason,
Sinn had attached himself to her family and looked after them during
their caravan journey.
Now the bard approached her wagon. After giving the horses a reas-
suring pat on the nose, he turned and smiled up at the woman who held
their reins in her hands.
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"I believe I have found us suitable accommodations, madame," he said
politely and cheerfully. Though Mariat could no longer make claim to
her aristocratic station, Sinn still treated her with the grace and respect
due a lady of substance. This not only endeared the charismatic minstrel
to her even more, but was a constant source of strength and reassurance
OUR VINTAGE YEARS 461
to her, planting and nurturing the seeds of belief in herself so that she
could accomplish the task she had come to Sanctuary to fulfill.
"Come up then, friend," Mariat said, offering him the seat beside her
on the wagon. "And lead us to the place you have found. I am parched
and travel-sore, and I wish to take a decent bath and eat a decent meal."
"You shall have both and more," Sinn answered, laying his mandolin
carefully between himself and Mariat to make sure it came to no harm.
The instrument was, after all, the tool of his livelihood. Then he directed
Mariat out of the Bazaar towards the inn he had located, and Keldrick
followed behind with the other wagon.
Much later that night, Mariat relaxed on a comfortable bed in her own
private room. It was the first real respite she had had in many weeks. The
establishment Sinn had discovered for them was called the Warm Kettle.
It was a quaint and charming inn, located in a decent part of town.
"Decent" meaning it was not in Downwind or the Maze. Having only
been in town one day, Mariat had already learned that honest people
avoided those two thief-infested rat holes like the proverbial plague.
The proprietors of the Warm Kettle were a pleasant, elderly Ilsigi
couple. Shamut and his wife, Dansea, had been in operation long before
the Rankans took over, and their business went on undisturbed for the
most part by any of Sanctuary's troubles. This was mostly due to the fact
that they minded their own business and ran an honest establishment.
The couple asked no questions of their clients, and they expected no
trouble in return. Shamut had been more than helpful in assuaging some
of Mariat's foremost anxieties. The contents of her wagons, which she
had guarded preciously across the mountains and through the desert,
were now safely housed in the locked vaults of Shamut's cellars. The
Ilsigi innkeeper had also been able to recommend merchants and trades-
men she could contact about business investments. Lastly, he had pro-
vided her with the name of the man to whom she would have to go to
find out about the availability and price of land around Sanctuary: the
city's foremost bureaucrat, Molin Torchholder Rankan priest.
With her goods and her grandchildren safe for the moment, Mariat
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sought her first night of true, peaceful rest in months. However, as she
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