'Dispose of it,' Garen-Tsen ordered the torturer and the man nodded. The University paid five gold coins for every fresh corpse - though this one was in such a wretched state he would probably receive only three.
The Chiatze minister lifted the hem of his long velvet robe and walked from the chamber. Am I clutching at leaves in the wind, he wondered? Can I send troops to Shul-sen's Valley with any surety of success?
Back in his own rooms, he emptied his mind of the problem and pored over the reports of the day. A secret meeting at the home of the Senator Borvan, an overheard criticism of the God-King in a tavern on Eel Street, a scuffle at the home of the fighter Klay. The name Druss caught his eye, and he remembered the awesome Drenai fighter. He read on, skimming through the reports and making notes. Druss's name figured once more; he had visited Klay in the hospice that morning. Garen-Tsen blinked as he read the small script. 'The subject made reference to healing jewels, which he would fetch for the fighter . . .' Picking up a small silver bell, Garen-Tsen rang it twice. A servant entered and bowed.
An hour later the informant was standing nervously before Garen-Tsen's desk. 'Tell me all that you heard. Every word. Leave nothing out,' ordered Garen-Tsen. The man did so. Dismissing him the Chiatze walked to the window, staring out over the towers and rooftops. A Nadir shaman had told Druss of the jewels, and he was heading east. The Valley of Shul-sen's Tears was in the east. Chorin-Tsu's daughter was riding east with the Nadir warrior Talisman.
He rang the bell once more.
'Go to Lord Larness,' he told the servant, 'and say that I must meet with him today. Also have a warrant drawn up for the arrest of the Drenai fighter, Druss.'
'Yes, Lord. What accusation should be logged against him?'
'Assault on a Gothir citizen, leading to the man's death.'
The servant looked puzzled. 'But, Lord, Shonan is not dead; he merely lost some teeth.' Garen-Tsen's hooded eyes fastened to the man's face and the servant reddened. 'I will see to it, Lord. Forgive me.'
The haggle had reached the crucial point, and Sieben the Poet steeled himself for the kill. The horse-dealer had moved from politeness to polite disinterest, to irritation, and now he was displaying an impressively feigned anger. 'This probably just looks like a horse to you,' said the dealer, patting the beast's steel-dust flanks, 'but to me Ganael is a member of my family. We love this horse. His sire was a champion, and his dam had the speed of the east wind. He is brave and loyal. And you insult me by offering the price normally paid for a sway-backed nag?'
Sieben adopted a serious expression, and held to the man's grey-eyed gaze. 'I do not disagree with your description of this . . . gelding. And were it five years younger I might be tempted to part with a little more silver. But the horse is worth no more than I have offered.'
'Then our business is concluded,' snapped the dealer. 'There are many noblemen in Gulgothir who would pay twice what I am asking of you. And I only offer you this special price because I like you, and I feel that Ganael likes you too.'
Sieben glanced up at the steel-dust and looked into the gelding's eye. 'He has a mean look,' he said.
'Spirited,' said the dealer swiftly. 'Like me, he doesn't suffer fools gladly. But he is fearless and strong. You are riding into the steppes. By Heaven, man, you will need a horse with the power to outrun those Nadir hill ponies.'
'Thirty pieces is too much. Ganael may be strong, but he is also verging on the old.'
'Nonsense. He is no more than nine . . .' As the dealer spoke Sieben raised a quizzical eyebrow. '. . . well, perhaps nearer ten or eleven. Even so, he has years of service left in him. His legs are strong, and there is no weakness in the hoof. And I'll re-shoe him for the steppes. How does that sound?'
'It would sound very fine - at twenty-two pieces of silver.'
'Gods, man, have you come here merely to insult me? Did you wake this morning and think, "I'll spend the day bringing an honest Gothir businessman to the threshold of heart failure?" Twenty-seven.'
'Twenty-five - and you can throw in the old mare in the furthest stall, and two saddles.'
The dealer swung round. 'The mare? Throw in? Are you trying to bankrupt me? That mare is of the finest pedigree. She . . .'
' . . . is a member of the family,' put in Sieben with a wry smile. 'I can see she is strong, but more importantly she is old and steady. My friend is no rider and I think she will suit him. You will have no buyers for her - save for prison meat or glue. The price for those mounts is one half-silver.'
The dealer's thin face relaxed and he pulled at his pointed beard. 'I do happen to have two old saddles - beautiful workmanship, equipped with bags and canteens. But I couldn't let them go for less than a full silver each. Twenty-seven, and we will grip hands upon it. It is too hot to haggle further.'
'Done,' agreed Sieben. 'But I want both horses re-shod and brought to me in three hours.' From his pouch he took two silver pieces and passed them to the man. 'Full payment will be upon receipt,' he said.
After giving the dealer the address, Sieben strolled out into the market-place beyond. It was near deserted, mute testimony to the riots that had taken place here last night. A young whore approached him, stepping from the doorway of a smoke-blackened building. 'Do you seek delight, Lord?' she asked him. Sieben gazed down; her face was young and pretty, but her eyes were world-weary and empty.
'How much?'
'For a nobleman like you, Lord, a mere quarter-silver. Unless you need a bed, and that will be a half.'
'And for this you will delight me?'
'I will give you hours of pleasure,' she promised. Sieben took her hand and saw that her fingers were clean, as was the cheap dress she wore.
'Show me,' he said.
Two hours later he wandered back into the House of Lodging. Majon was sitting by the far window, composing a speech he was to make at the Royal Funeral tomorrow. He glanced up as Sieben entered, and laid aside his quill. 'We must talk,' he said, beckoning Sieben to join him.
The poet was tired, and already regretting his decision to join Druss on his journey. He sat on a padded couch and poured himself a goblet of watered wine. 'Let us make this swift, ambassador, for I need an hour's sleep before I ride.'
'Yes, the ride. This is not seemly, poet. The Queen's funeral is tomorrow and Druss is an honoured guest. To ride out now is an insult of the worst kind. Especially following the riots - which began over Druss, after all. Could you not wait for a few days at least?'
Sieben shook his head. 'I am afraid we are dealing here with something you don't understand, ambassador. Druss sees this as a debt of honour.'
'Do not seek to insult me, poet. I well understand the notion. But Druss did not ask for this man's help, and therefore is in no way responsible for his injury. He owes him nothing.'
'Amazing,' said Sieben. 'You prove my point exactly. I talk of honour and you speak of transactions. Listen to me . . . a man was crippled trying to help Druss. Now he is dying and we cannot wait any longer. The surgeon told Druss that Klay has perhaps a month to live. Therefore we are leaving now, as soon as the horses are delivered.'
'But it is all nonsense!' roared Majon. 'Magical jewels hidden in a Nadir valley! What sane man would even consider such . . . such a fanciful tale? I have been researching the area you plan to visit. There are many tribes raiding in those parts. No convoys passed through there - unless heavily guarded. There is one particular group of raiders known as Chop-backs. How do you like the sound of that? You know how they got their name? They smash the lower spines of their prisoners and leave them out on the steppes for the wolves to devour.'
Sieben drained his wine, and hoped his face had not shown the terror he felt. 'You have made your point, ambassador.'
'Why is he really doing this?'
'I have already told you. Druss owes the man a debt - and he would walk through fire to repay it.'
As Sieben rose, Majon also stood. 'Why are you going with him? He is not the brightest of men, and I can . . . just. .
. understand his simplistic view of the world. But you? You have wit and rare intelligence. Can you not see the futility of this venture ?'
'Yes,' admitted Sieben. 'And it saddens me that I can, for it merely highlights the terrible flaws of what you call intelligence.'
Back in his room, Sieben bathed and then stretched himself out on his bed. The delights the whore had promised had proved to be ephemeral and illusive. Just as all the delights of life Sieben had ever sampled. Lust followed by a gentle sorrow for all that had been missed. The ultimate experience, like the myth of the ultimate woman, was always ahead.
Why are you going with him?
Sieben loathed danger, and trembled at the thought of approaching fear. But Druss, for all his faults, lived life to the full, relishing every breath. Sieben had never been more alive than when he had accompanied Druss on his search for the kidnapped Rowena, in the storm when the Thunderchild had been hurled and tossed like a piece of driftwood, or in the battles and wars when death had seemed but a heartbeat distant.
They had returned in triumph to Drenan, and there Sieben had composed his epic poem, Druss the Legend. It was now the most widely performed saga in all the Drenai lands, and had been translated into a dozen languages. The fame had brought riches, the riches had bought women, and Sieben had fallen back with astonishing speed into a life of idle luxury. He sighed now and rose from the bed. Servants had laid out his clothes - leggings of pale blue wool, and soft thigh-length riding-boots of creamy beige. His puff-sleeved shirt was of blue silk, the wrists slashed to reveal grey silk inserts decorated with mother of pearl. A royal blue cape completed the ensemble, fastened at the neck with a delicate braided chain of gold. Once dressed, he stood before the full-length mirror and looped his baldric over his shoulder. From it hung four black sheaths, each housing an ivory-hilted throwing-knife.
Why are you going with him? It would be fine if he could say, 'Because he is my friend.' Sieben hoped there was at least a semblance of truth in that. The reality however was altogether different. 'I need to feel alive,' he said, aloud.
'I have purchased two mounts,' said Sieben, 'a fine thoroughbred for myself and a cart-horse for you. Since you ride with all the grace of a sack of carrots, I thought it would be fitting.'
Druss ignored the jibe. 'Where did you get the pretty knives?' he asked, pointing at the ornate leather baldric slung carelessly over Sieben's shoulder.
'Pretty? These are splendidly balanced weapons of death.' Sieben slid one from its sheath. The blade was diamond-shaped and razor-sharp. 'I practised with them before I bought them. I hit a moth at ten paces.'
'That could come in handy,' grunted Druss. 'Nadir moths can be ferocious, I'm told.'
'Ah, yes,' muttered Sieben, 'the old jokes are the best. But I should have seen that one staggering over the horizon.'
Druss carefully packed his saddle-bags with supplies of dried meat, fruit, salt, and sugar. Fastening the straps, he dragged a blanket from the bed and rolled it tightly before tying it to the saddle-bags. 'Majon is not best pleased that we are leaving,' said Sieben. 'The Queen's interment is tomorrow, and he fears the King will take our departure at this juncture as an insult to his dearly departed.'
'Have you packed yet?' asked Druss, swinging the saddle-bag to his shoulder.
'I have a servant doing it,' said Sieben, 'even as we speak. I hate these bags, they crumple the silk. No shirt or tunic ever looks right when produced from one of these grotesqueries.'
Druss shook his head in exasperation. 'You're bringing silk shirts into the steppes? You think there will be many admirers of fashion among the Nadir?'
Sieben chuckled. 'When they see me, they'll think I'm a god!'
Striding to the far wall Druss gathered up his axe, Snaga. Sieben stared at the awesome weapon, with its glittering butterfly blades of shining silver steel, and its black haft fashioned with silver runes. 'I detest that thing,' he said, with feeling.
Leaving the bedroom, Druss walked out into the main lounge and through to the entrance hall. The ambassador Majon was talking to three soldiers of the Royal Guard, tall men in silver breastplates and black cloaks. 'Ah, Druss,' he said smoothly. 'These gentlemen would like you to accompany them to the Palace of Inquisition. There's obviously been a mistake, but there are questions they would like to ask you.'
'About what?'
Majon cleared his throat and nervously swept a hand over his neatly groomed silver hair. 'Apparently there was an altercation at the house of the fighter Klay, and someone named Shonan died as a result.'
Druss laid Snaga on the floor, and dropped the saddlebags from his shoulder. 'Died? From a punch to the mouth ? Pah! I don't believe it. He was alive when I left him.'
'You will come with us,' said a guard, stepping forward.
'Best that you agree, Druss,' said Majon soothingly. 'I am sure we can . . .'
'Enough talk, Drenai,' said the guard. 'This man is wanted for murder, and we're taking him.' From his belt the guard produced a set of manacles and Druss's eyes narrowed.
'I think you might be making a mistake, officer,' said Sieben. But his words came too late as the guard stepped forward - straight into Druss's right fist, which cannoned from his jaw. The officer pitched to his right, his head striking the wall, dislodging his white-plumed helm. The other two guards sprang forward. Druss felled the first with a left hook, the second with a right uppercut.
One man groaned, then all was still. Majon spoke, his voice trembling. 'What have you done? You can't attack Royal Guards!'
'I just did. Now, are you ready, poet?'
'Indeed I am. I shall fetch my bags and then I think it best we quit this city with all due speed.'
Majon slumped to a padded chair. 'What will I tell them when they . . . wake?'
'I suggest you give them your discourse on the merits of diplomacy over violence,' said Sieben. Gently he patted Majon's shoulder, then ran to his apartments and gathered his gear.
The horses were stabled at the rear. Druss tied his saddle-bags into place, then clumsily hauled himself into the saddle. The mare was sixteen hands and, though sway-backed, was a powerful beast. Sieben's mount was of similar size but, as he had told Druss, the horse was a thoroughbred, steel-grey and sleek.
Sieben vaulted to the saddle and led the way out into the main street. 'You must have hit that Shonan awfully hard, old horse.'
'Not hard enough to kill him,' said Druss, swaying in the saddle and grabbing the pommel.
'Grip with your thighs, not your calves,' advised Sieben.
'I never liked riding. I feel foolish perched up here.'
There were a number of riders making for the Eastern Gate, and Druss and Sieben found themselves in a long convoy threading through the narrow streets. At the gates soldiers were questioning each rider and Sieben's nervousness grew. 'They can't be looking for you already, surely?' Druss shrugged.
Slowly they approached the gates. A sentry walked forward. 'Papers,' he said.
'We are Drenai,' Sieben told him. 'Just out for a ride.'
'You need papers signed by the Exit Officer of the Watch,' said the sentry, and Sieben saw Druss tense. Swiftly he reached into his pouch and produced a small silver coin; leaning over the saddle, he passed it to the soldier.
'One feels so cooped up in a city,' said Sieben, with a bright smile. 'An hour's ride in open country frees the mind.'
The sentry pocketed the coin. 'I like to ride myself,' he said. 'Enjoy yourselves.' He waved them through and the two riders kicked their mounts into a canter and set off for the eastern hills.
After two hours in the saddle Sieben drank the last of his water and stared about him. With the exception of the distant mountains, the landscape was featureless and dry.
'No rivers or streams,' said the poet. 'Where will we find water ?' Druss pointed to a range of rocky hills some miles further on. 'How can you be sure?' asked the poet. 'I don't want to die of thirst out here.'
'You won't.' He grinned at Sieben. 'I hav
e fought campaigns in deserts and I know how to find water. But there's one trick I learned that's better than all the others.'
'And that is?'
'I bought a map of the water-holes! Now let's walk these horses for a while.'
Druss slid from the saddle and strode on. Sieben dismounted and joined him. For a time they walked on in silence.
'Why so morose, old horse?' asked Sieben, as they neared the outcrop of rocks.
'I've been thinking of Klay. How can people just turn on him like that? After all he did for them.'
'People are sometimes vile creatures, Druss, selfish and self-regarding. But the real fault is not in them, but in us for expecting better. When Klay dies they'll all remember what a fine man he was, and they'll probably shed tears for him.'
'He deserves better,' grunted Druss.
'Maybe he does,' agreed Sieben, wiping sweat from his brow with a perfumed handkerchief. 'But when did that ever matter? Do we get what we deserve? I do not believe so. We get what we can win - what we can take, whether it be employment, or money, or women, or land. Look at you! Raiders stole your wife; they had the power to take, and they took her. Sadly for them you had the power to hunt them down, and the sheer determination to pursue your love across the ocean. But you didn't win her back by luck, or by the whim of a capricious deity. You did it by force of arms. You might have failed for a hundred reasons, illness, war - the flight of an arrow, the flash of a sword-blade - a sudden storm at sea. You didn't get what you deserved, Druss, you got what you fought for. Klay was unlucky. He took a bolt that was meant for you. That was your good luck.'