'Hey, minstrel,' said Mama Lantieri, striding into the room without knocking, the scents of hycinths, sweat, beer and smoked bacon wafting before her. 'You've got a guest. Enter, noble gentleman.'

Dandilion smoothed his hair and sat up in the enormous carved armchair. The two girls sitting on his lap quickly jumped up, covering their charms and pulling down their disordered clothes. The modesty of harlots, thought the poet, was not at all a bad title for a ballad. He got to his feet, fastened his belt and pulled on his doublet, all the while looking at the nobleman standing at the threshold.

'Indeed,' he remarked, 'you know how to find me anywhere, though you rarely pick an opportune moment. You're lucky I'd not yet decided which of these two beauties I prefer. And at your prices, Lantieri, I cannot afford them both.'

Mama Lantieri smiled in sympathy and clapped her hands. Both girls – a fair-skinned, freckled islander and a dark-haired half-elf – swiftly left the room. The man at the door removed his cloak and handed it to Mama along with a small but well-filled money-bag.

T'orgive me, master,' he said, approaching the table and making himself comfortable. 'I know this is not a good time to disturb you, But you disappeared out from beneath the oak so quickly… I did not catch you on the High Road as I had intended and did not immediately come across your tracks in this little town. I'll not take much of your time, believe me-'

'They always say that, and it's always a lie,' the bard interrupted. 'Leave us alone, Lantieri, and see to it that we're not disturbed. I'm listening, sir.'

The man scrutinised him. He had dark, damp, almost tearful eyes, a pointed nose and ugly, narrow lips.

'I'll come to the point without wasting your time,' he declared, waiting for the door to close behind Mama. 'Your ballads interest me, master. To be more specific, certain characters of which you sang interest me. I am concerned with the true fate of your ballad's heroes. If I am not mistaken, the true destinies of real people inspired the beautiful work I heard beneath the oak tree? I have in mind… Little Cirilla of Cintra. Queen Calanthe's granddaughter.'