The next night Taurin returned to Jéànty’s
and sat at the bar, waiting. A glass of arla appeared in front of
him as if by magic, and when he looked up, the bargirl smiled. “See
you came back,” she said. “He hoped you would.”
Taurin didn’t have to ask who he was.
“What’s his name?”
“Quim,” she replied before moving on to other
customers.
Quim. Taurin rolled the name around in
his mind, tasting it. Quite unusual but then again, so was the man
who claimed it. Throughout his daily exercises that morning, Taurin
hadn’t been able to get the bard out of his mind—when a few friends
had asked him to join them for dinner, he’d turned them down, eager
to return to the inn for another concert.
Taurin didn’t have to wait long. When the
bard entered the room from a back hallway, Taurin wa
