Chapter 8
AT THIS TIME of year, the land of the south knew no night. Day bled into dusk and slightly deeper dusk and then, slowly, the sun peeped above the horizon again.
Sick of watching Loriane sleep, Tandor had gone outside at the first hint of sunlight.
The drunken festival crowds had gone home, surrendering the streets to the humdrum of business: melteries replenishing their stocks of ice and distillates, cooks from the Outer City’s eating houses haggling over the last vats of saltmeat, because certainly it would be the worst of shame to ask one’s customers to eat only tubers and beans, with the only sniff of meat from the lard used to cook the pancakes.
No. Must not think of food. His stomach had felt queasy for two days in a row.
He yearned for freshly baked bread, and fruity m
