'Master Ash, I wish to ask you something.'
'Then ask it.'
Nico took a deep breath, gathering his courage. 'I've been wondering. I'm not so certain I'm cut out for this – to be Rshun.'
Ash blinked, as though he was having trouble focusing. He tore off the wrapping and bit off a chunk of the oatcake himself, still not taking his eyes from Nico.
In a torrent, the words tumbled from Nico's lips. 'I don't know if I have it in me. This work… it's worse than I expected it to be. And last night…' He shook his head. 'To fight as a soldier, to defend my homeland, perhaps that's one thing, but I'm not so certain of this.'
'Nico,' said the old man gently, his cheek stuffed with oatcake, 'if you do not wish to be my apprentice any longer, then tell me so, and I will settle things with you now so you may go home.'
Nico jerked upright. 'But what of our bargain?'
'You have seen it through as best you could. You have worked hard, and faced danger. Simply say the word. I will take you to the docks right now and find you a berth on a ship. You can stay onboard tonight, and by morning you can be sailing away from here. I will not hold it against you. I would do the same myself, if I could.'
Serese had been right, he realized. This was a good man.
Ash wrapped up the rest of the cake and turned away, fumbling to stow it back in his pack.
'Do you wish to leave?' came the old man's words, absently, his back still to Nico.
Nico gazed down at the farlander. The old man seemed almost frail tonight in his weariness. The way he stood, slightly slumped over the pack, not moving, not even breathing it seemed, as he waited for a reply.
Ash's question hung in the air gathering in volume, creating a distance between them; they were strangers to each other in that moment, separated by diverging paths.
It came to Nico in a flash. You're dying.
He blinked at the old man, reflecting on the headaches, the constant use of the dulce leaves, the urge to take on an apprentice. Ash was ill, and knew it was only going to get worse for him.
It was suddenly too much for Nico. He thought: I will never be able to live with myself, not for a second, if I leave this sick old farlander here, in this awful place, alone.
'No master,' he heard himself say. 'I think this city is just getting to me, that's all.'
Ash remained a moment with his back turned to him, his shoulders swelling as he took a fresh breath.
When he turned around, the distance between them vanished; once again they were returned to their familiar roles of master and apprentice.
'You should get some sleep,' suggested Ash. 'It will be a long day tomorrow. We can speak more in the morning, if you wish.'
Nico lay down, his head propped on one arm. Ash assumed his meditation position on the floor. There he breathed silently, his eyes fixed on a particular spot on the door.
Nico gazed at the ceiling, not more than two feet above his head. He studied the cracks in the plaster, the warm light flickering against them, the dark patches where damp had taken hold. He listened to the occasional clatter of coins as they tumbled within the walls, deposited in the floors above, and finding their long way down the collection chutes to some secure vault in the hostalio basement far below.
He wondered how long the old man had left to him. It must be a disease of some kind, something terminal.
Nico would stay with him, despite his own doubts. Even though he knew this was really, a decision based on loyalty and compassion, rather than any real desire to remain.
When he fell asleep a short time later, he dreamed of burying the old man next to the grave he had made for Boon. Serese was there, too. She spoke some words over the grave. Nico himself was silent: in place of a speech he lay the old man's sword against the packed earth. When they turned and walked away from the site, he felt a mixture of sadness and relief. It was as though with every step the heaviness in his stomach lightened.
He and Serese carried packs on their backs. For an eternal time after that, Nico dreamed that they were travelling together, carefree and in love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ensnared The sun sank fast in these mountains. By late afternoon the shadows they cast were already pooling into a bleak onset of twilight.
The column of Commandos made camp by a clear stream. They had been travelling hard for a full day now, on foot mostly, since they had left their zels in the coastal foothills along with a few of their men. Mules carried the heaviest of their baggage, more footsure in these mountains than the heavy thoroughbreds they had left behind. Purchased in Cheem Port with their imperial coin, men were unloading them now, mostly items of food and small disassembled pieces of artillery. Orders, when necessary, were given by silent hand gestures from the officers, who were distinguished only by the insignia of rank tattooed on their temples.
One by one the last of the purdas returned. These were the elite scouts of the imperial army, named after the hooded cloaks they wore, which were camouflaged with breaks of colour and featherings of grass and foliage. Each was accompanied by a large wolfhound, bred for this work. The purdas reported the surrounding area to be clear.
Regardless, a double ring of sentries was posted around the camp, squatting hidden from sight in their improvised hides. No fires were lit. The men's shelters were sheets of speckled canvas propped on sticks, each a lean-to just large enough for a man to crawl underneath and stay dry from any rainfall.
The Commandos worked smoothly and with little supervision. Their colonel, chewing on a plug of tarweed as he watched from the centre of the camp, gave a satisfied grunt before he left his men to it.
He headed away from the periphery of the camp towards the kneeling form of the Diplomat.
'This is it, then?' he asked gruffly, as he knelt beside the berry bush the young man was scrutinizing so closely.
Che continued to stare down at the bush. He was dressed in simple leather armour beneath a heavy cloak of dyed grey wool. He wrapped it tighter about himself, and replied, 'It is.'
Cassus, the colonel, drew one of the black berries towards him, still on its branch. 'It looks remarkably like a skull,' he observed of the white markings upon it. 'I wouldn't wish to put such a thing in my mouth.'
'I don't eat it. I prepare it correctly, and smear some of the juice on my forehead. It is lethal to use it any other way.'
The colonel held the berry for a moment longer then released it, causing the small bush to quiver. Cassus stood and considered the man by his side. Che did not look up.
'When will you take it?'
Some faint expression flickered across Che's face, and was gone before it could be read. Again Cassus wondered what was troubling him.
The colonel liked to think of himself as a perceptive man. He knew this guide of theirs was struggling with something, some concern that was only worsening as they grew nearer to their goal. He does not wish to be doing this, Cassus often found himself thinking.
'In the morning,' announced Che. 'The men will meanwhile need their rest. There's no telling how fast I may travel, or over what kind of terrain.'
'And you will be truly delirious the entire time?'
Che's lips parted, showing teeth. 'Entirely out of my skull.'
The colonel did not like that, and he said as much. But he had complained before about this aspect of their mission, and the Diplomat had no further reassurances for him now. The man offered nothing but silence: it was not his concern.
Cassus turned and surveyed the camp, where the men had almost finished their preparations. Already, some were hunkering down beside their lean-tos to chew on their dried rations or talk quietly amongst themselves. Others had stripped off to bathe in the stream.