He came forward, a short, straight-backed man, grey hair tied back from a handsome, timeworn face. He looked to be seventy or so. Old scars, four white seams, ran from his left cheekbone down to the jaw. His gaze was clear, direct, intense. “They’re ripe,” he said, “though they’ll be even better tomorrow.” He held out his handful of little yellow plums. “Lord Sparrowhawk,” the stranger said huskily. “Archmage.” The old man gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. “Come into the shade,” he said.
Eeeeep!
