The auction concluded, Conn wandered out into the night air and sat upon a fence rail, looking down on the city by the sea. In the moonlight Goriasa was no longer ugly. Lantern lights glowed in hundreds of windows, and the paths and roads were lit by torches. The city gleamed and glittered like a jewel-encrusted necklace hung around the neck of the bay.
Conn climbed down from the fence and was about to return to the building when a movement to the left caught his eye. A man was walking up the hill towards the hall. He was tall and broad shouldered, his hair close cropped and shining like silver in the moonlight. Conn watched him, wondering what it was that he had noticed. The man's movements were sure, his walk confident, his manner alert. Conn smiled. The man moved like Ruathain, the same easy grace and arrogant style. Suddenly dark shapes sprang from a side road. Moonlight glinted on a blade. The walking man saw the danger and swung round, striking out at the first attacker. His assailant fell back, but a second, armed with a cudgel, lashed out. The cudgel struck the man's face and he toppled to the ground. Conn drew his knife, shouted at the top of his lungs, and ran at the group.
Two of them rushed him. One held a knife, the other a long club. The knifeman was in the lead as they closed in. Conn twisted and kicked the knifeman in the knee. There was a loud crack, followed by a piercing scream as the knifeman fell. Leaping over him Conn threw up his left arm, blocking a blow from the club and slamming the Seidh blade deep into the attacker's shoulder. The man grunted, fell back, then turned and ran from sight. Two other men rose from beside the fallen man and fled back down the alley. Conn did not give chase, but crouched down beside the victim. Despite his white hair the man was not old. Conn guessed him to be in his middle twenties. Blood was oozing from a cut on his swollen temple. The man pushed himself to his knees. Then he swore. Conn helped him to his feet.
'Come, I'll take you to the hall,' said Conn.
'I can walk, my friend,' said the tall man. 'I've suffered worse wounds than this.' He peered at Conn's scarred face. 'As indeed you have. What was it, lion?'
'Bear.'
'You are lucky to be alive.'
Conn chuckled. 'So are you. Do you know who your enemies were?'
'Let's find out,' said the man, moving to where the knifeman lay groaning. The man's leg had been snapped below the knee, the lower part of the limb bent to an impossible angle.
The tall man knelt by him. 'Who sent you?' he asked. The knifeman swore and spat at his face.
'I'll tell you nothing, Stone man.'
'That's probably true,' the tall man replied, casually picking up the assassin's fallen knife.
Connavar saw the deadly intent in the man's cold eyes. 'Do not kill him,' he said, softly.
For a moment only the man remained very still, then his shoulders relaxed. 'You risked your life for me. How then can I refuse your request? Very well, he shall live.' He glanced down at the wounded knifeman. 'If we leave you here will your friends come back for you?'
'Yes,' grunted the man.
'Good. Then I shall bid you farewell.' Tossing the knife into the man's lap he walked away. Conn followed him.
'He called you Stone man. Are you from that city?'
'Yes. My name is Valanus. What is your interest in Stone?'
'My friend and I are travelling there. I am eager to learn about it.'
'It is a great city, boy. The centre of the world. Now, I think I had better get this cut seen to.' He paused. 'So tell me, to whom do I owe my life?'
'I am Connavar.'
'Gath? Ostro? What?'
'Rigante.'
'Ah yes, the tribes across the water. I have heard of them. A proud people, it is said. You worship trees or some such.'
'We do not worship trees,' Conn told him, as they walked towards the hall. 'We worship the gods of air and water, and the spirits of the land.'
'There is only one god, Connavar. And He is in Stone.' Valanus paused at the doorway to the hall. 'So tell me, Connavar, why did you save my life?'
'Why would I not?' countered Conn. Valanus gave a weary smile.
'My head hurts too much to debate the point. I am in your debt, Rigante.'
With that he turned away from Conn and moved into the hall.
Garshon was a short, slope-shouldered man, close to sixty years of age. Bald and one-eyed, he wore a strip of red cloth over his blinded left eye. Gold bands adorned his muscular upper arms, and gaudy rings shone on every finger. His single eye was a pale, merciless blue, and it either stared, or glared. There were no halfway measures with Garshon. There never had been. Not since that terrible day in the Doca Forest forty-four years ago, when they had burned out his right eye.
He had been hunting rabbits when the lord and his lady rode by. The young Garshon had been stunned by the beauty of the lord's wife, and had failed to dip his head. Instead he had gazed upon her. She said later, as the retainers tied him down and prepared a fire, that he had winked at her.
Garshon had suffered on that day, and for several months after. The pain had been awful. But it had released in him a terrible ambition, that burned just as bright as the heated dagger blade that had destroyed his eye.
Revenge took him six years four months and eight days. Gathering together a small gang of outlaws he raided through Doca lands, gathering wealth and amassing power, hiring more mercenaries and killers, until at last he besieged the lord's town. When it fell he had the lord dragged naked into the town square. There Garshon castrated him, then hanged him. The lady he flung from a high cliff, and watched with relish as her body was crushed against the rocks below. Her children he sold into slavery.
The other lords formed an alliance that all but destroyed his army. Garshon had escaped, and fled to the west with three ponies and a chest of gold, coming at last to the then small port of Goriasa.
Thirty-eight years later he controlled the city and its trade routes, his power absolute, his influence extraordinary. Tribal kings and princes looked to him for advice and patronage; a word from Garshon could influence events six hundred miles away. And yet he was not satisfied.
Truth to tell he had never been satisfied. On the day he killed the lord he had dragged his lady to the clifftop. 'Why are you doing this?' she cried.
'Look at my eye, you cow. How can you ask?'
She had stared at him, blankly, totally uncomprehending. He knew in that moment that she had no recollection of ruining his life. As she fell screaming to her death Garshon felt only emptiness. There was no joy in the revenge.
There had been no real joy since. He should have kept her alive, forced her to remember, to know that her punishment was a matter of justice, and not merely vengeance. Then, perhaps, he would have tasted the sweetness of her death.
'You seem lost in thought,' said Banouin. Garshon took a deep breath, and returned his concentration to the little merchant. He actually liked the man, which was rare.
'I was thinking of old times.'
'Not good ones,' observed Banouin.
Garshon grinned. 'You are nearly as sharp as me.' Forcing himself to think of business he haggled with Banouin for a while, finally making an offer on the merchant's ponies. As they shook hands Garshon realized the price was too high, and he cursed himself for allowing the past to distract him. 'You want the money in gold?' he asked.
'Hold it for me,' said Banouin. 'I will be back in the autumn.'
'You are a very trusting man, Banouin,' said Garshon. 'What if you do not make it back?'
'Then give it to Connavar, who is travelling with me. And, before you ask, if we both fail to return send it to my wife in Three Streams.'
'You are wed? My congratulations, Banouin. It will be as you say. And I thank you for your faith in my honesty.'
Banouin gave a broad smile. 'I would trust your word with more than my gold, Garshon.'
The one-eyed merchant was both touched and embarrassed. He rose, bade farewell to Banouin and moved from the small office out into a narrow corridor and up the stairs to his inner quarters on the upper f
loor of Travellers' Hall. His guest was sitting on a wide couch, his legs stretched out on the soft fabric. Garshon noticed he had removed his boots, which was more than he would have expected.
'I understand you were attacked,' said Garshon, snapping his fingers. A young maidservant ran forward and poured red wine into a goblet of blue glass. Garshon sipped it.
'I thought I had lost them,' said Valanus. 'They surprised me.'
'And I thought you Stone warriors were invincible.'
'No man is invincible,' said Valanus, swinging his legs to the floor and sitting up. He winced as a sharp pain seared behind his eye.
'You have a lump the size of a goose egg. Perhaps your skull is cracked.' Garshon grinned as he said it, then pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Valanus. He peered at the swelling. 'Who was your saviour?'
'A young Rigante - not old enough to know better.'
Garshon started hard at his guest. At the mention of the word saviour Valanus' expression had changed momentarily. The change was fleeting, but Garshon caught it. What had it signified? Irritation? Possibly. But something more. 'Did you gain information from the survivor?' asked the merchant.
'No.'
'Ah, you killed him, then?'
'No, I did not. Connavar asked me to spare him.'
Garshon leaned back and smiled. 'Asked you? The blow to the head must have put you in a very good mood. It is not like you, Valanus, to spare your enemies.'
'I have come here to talk about other matters,' said Valanus, casting a look at the servant girl.
'Ah yes. Other matters.' Turning to the girl Garshon waved his hand. She bowed and walked from the room. Garshon sat quietly for a moment, and when he spoke it was in the language of Stone. 'The general, Jasaray, is very generous. My man in Escelium sends word that three thousand gold pieces have been left with him for safe keeping.'
'Only five hundred is for you,' Valanus reminded him. 'The rest is to be used for our allies.'
'Allies? You have no allies. You have only servants. What is it you require of my . . . friends among the Gath?'
'Large amounts of grain, beef, spare horses, and two thousand auxiliary cavalry. We will pay ten silver pieces for every warrior. But they must supply their own mounts.'
'How much grain?'
'I will send you full details when the general has decided on his line of march.'
Garshon poured more wine. 'What would you do, Stone man, if you could not find traitors?'
'We would still win, Garshon. But it would be more slowly. And I do not think of our allies as traitors. They help us to defeat their own enemies. Nothing treacherous in that.' Valanus rose. 'I think I will go to my bed. My head hurts like the hammers of Hades are pounding in it.'
'You will not require a woman tonight, then?'
'Not tonight.'
The tall, silver-haired warrior strode from the room. Garshon watched him go. The Stone soldier was a tough man, apparently fearless. And yet . . .
Garshon walked from the room, down a long corridor, and into a small side room. Four men were there. One had a heavily bandaged shoulder, another had three splints on his broken leg.
'What happened?' asked Garshon.
One of the uninjured men, a thin, balding fellow with a pock-marked face, spoke up. 'We had him, but then this youngster ran in. He broke Varik's leg and stabbed Jain. He was very fast, Garshon. And we didn't know if he was alone. So we ran.' Garshon said nothing. They knew the boy was alone. But he had frightened them. He turned to Varik.
'How is the leg?'
'The break is clean - just below the knee. It will be weeks, though, before I can walk.'
'Why did Valanus let you live?'
'The boy told him not to kill me. I tell you, Garshon, my heart almost gave out.'
'He asked him, you mean?'
'No. He just said: "Don't kill him." For a heartbeat I thought he was going to do it anyway. But he didn't, thank Taranis!'
'What do you think the boy would have done had Valanus stabbed you?'
Varik shrugged. 'I don't know.'
'Was he carrying a blade?'
'Yes. A shining knife.'
'Describe the scene. Exactly.' Varik did so. Garshon listened, made him repeat it, then turned away. As he went to leave the room the pock-marked man spoke again.
'Why don't you just have the bastard killed in his bed?'
'I might have you killed in your bed,' said Garshon. 'You think I want Jasaray as an enemy? There is no way I can kill Valanus in my own home. However, I had thought that four of you would be enough. How foolish of me. But then I could not know that you would be surprised by a boy.'
Leaving them he wandered out along the corridor and down into the hall. Women were dancing on the raised dais, and he scanned the crowd of watchers, locating Banouin and the lad. For some time he stood and stared at the young man. Then he summoned a serving maid and sent her to Banouin.
Returning to his rooms he laid out two more goblets and another jug of wine. Moments later Banouin entered, followed by the Rigante youngster. The boy moved well, perfectly balanced, like a fighter. Garshon gestured his guests to be seated, then poured them wine. 'Your young friend has done me a great service, Banouin,' he said. The Stone merchant seemed surprised, and glanced at his companion. 'He rescued a guest of mine from robbers. I am in his debt.' He smiled at the youngster.
'It was nothing,' said the youth, his voice deep and resonant. A voice that would one day hold power, thought Garshon. He rolled the name around his mind. Connavar. He had heard it before. His single eye noted the jagged scar on the youngster's cheek, and the green and gold eyes. 'Ah,' he said, 'you are the boy who fought the bear and saved the princess.'
'There was no princess,' said Connavar. 'Though there was a bear.'
Garshon pointed to the knife at his belt. 'Is that the blade that struck the beast?'
'Yes.'
'May I see it?'
Connavar rose, drew the knife and handed it to the merchant hilt first. 'It is very beautiful,' said Garshon. 'If you ever consider selling it .. .'
'I will not,' said the youngster.
'I do not blame you.' Handing the knife back he turned to the astonished Banouin. 'I take it your young friend has not mentioned his heroics?'
'Not as yet,' said Banouin, seeking to mask his irritation.
'He tackled four robbers. Broke one man's leg, stabbed another in the shoulder. The others ran. He was very compassionate. My guest would have killed one of them, but Connavar stopped him.' The pale blue gaze moved to Connavar. 'Why was that? Surely the world would be a better place for fewer robbers?'
'I have killed men who deserved to die,' said Connavar. 'But I did so in combat. The robber was defenceless.' He shrugged. 'I have no regrets.'
'Something only the young can say,' observed Garshon. Moving to a chest he opened the lid and lifted clear a pouch, which he tossed to Connavar. 'There are twenty silver pieces there. Please accept them as a mark of my gratitude.'
He saw the lad glance at Banouin, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Connavar tied the pouch to his belt, but made no show of thanks. 'I am keeping you from the pleasures of the hall,' said Garshon. 'You will stay here tonight as my guests, and any services you require will be free - wine, women, food and lodging.'
'Thank you, Garshon,' said Banouin, rising. 'That is most gracious.'
'Not at all.' He turned to Connavar. 'If ever you have need of my services you have only to ask.'
Connavar nodded, but did not reply.
Garshon walked them to the door, then returned to his couch.
How interesting, he thought. The fearless Valanus had been afraid of the boy. And now Garshon knew why. There was something very dangerous there, lurking beneath the surface.
Something deadly.
Conn was glad to leave the turbulent city of Goriasa. The air there seemed dense, full of harsh scents and foul aromas. And the earth maiden had been a huge disappointment. She lacked the skills of Eriatha
and her breath had stunk of stale wine. On the open plain now he felt himself relax. Here he could smell the grass and feel the whispering breeze, cool from the sea.
For almost a hundred miles the land was flat, barely a hill to break the visual monotony. Rarely did they see travellers, and when they did Conn was impressed by the knowledge Banouin had of them, identifying tribes from the various colours of the cloaks, shirts or adornments worn by riders. Banouin was greeted everywhere with warmth and recognition. The merchant had removed his Rigante clothing now, and wore a red, knee-length tunic, leather leggings and boots and a conical blue hat. The hat was old, the fabric worn away, exposing the wooden rim beneath. Banouin claimed it was 'a lucky hat'. Conn's clothes excited great interest in the travellers they met, for the design of his Rigante cloak of chequered blue and green was not well known among the Gath, and he was asked many questions about his homeland.
In the main people were friendly, and only once in the early part of their travels did Conn feel under threat. They came upon five riders wearing black cloaks. There were no smiles from the newcomers, who blocked the road and waited, grim faced.
'Stay calm, Conn,' said Banouin, keeping his voice low. Lifting his right hand in greeting, Banouin edged his pony forward. Conn touched heels to his own mount and rode alongside. The five men wore curved cavalry sabres, and carried short hunting bows. Conn glanced at their faces, assessing them. They seemed tough, and their manner showed they were tensed for action. Conn well knew that Banouin could fight without weapons, for he had spent many an afternoon with the Foreigner sparring, but five armed men were not to be taken lightly. 'A fine morning,' said Banouin. 'May Daan smile upon the riders of the Gath, and more importantly on those from the village of Gudri.'
'I know you, Blue Hat,' said the lead rider, a young man with a drooping blond moustache and braided hair. 'You are the merchant who brought honey sweets in the fell winter.'
'And you are the boy who was in the tree,' said Banouin. 'Osta? Was that it?'
The man laughed aloud. 'Ostaran, but Osta is what my friends call me. Are you carrying honey sweets?'
'Not this trip, my friend. You are a long way from your village. Is all well there?'