The fat merchant, Imogan, raised a hand. ‘A moment, please. Perhaps we may negotiate …’
‘We were negotiating,’ Orjin answered. ‘Your approach was to insult me. Negotiation failed.’
Pearl snatched the pipe from her mouth and jabbed it at him. ‘You cannot do this.’
‘I am. I suggest you gather your labourers and guards to contain the fire so that your estates aren’t consumed.’
‘But artwork,’ the tiny girl spluttered. ‘Fine leathers from Seven Cities. Spices. Silks! You barbarian!’
‘Fisherman, actually.’
Now her tiny eyes slit almost shut. ‘We, the representatives of the trading houses of Quon, will see you crucified for this. Your motley gang will line the road from Quon to Purage!’ She raised her chin as if in a coup. ‘Long ago we demanded the return of Talian forces. Even as we speak they are probably on the way!’ She jammed the pipe back into her mouth, sneering her triumph. ‘You will all be dead within the month.’
Orjin inclined his head to her. ‘We shall see. But for now, I suggest you throw every man and woman you have into a bucket brigade.’ He motioned to the guards. ‘Even that lot, though their pretty livery will get all sooty.’
Pearl opened her mouth to reply but the third of the trio, who had been studying Orjin all this time, hand at chin, forestalled her. ‘You planned all along to relieve Purage, and in case word has not yet reached you I can tell you that you have succeeded. But at a price. So far you have been the cat, but from today onward you are the mouse.’
The woman turned a glare upon the tall and rail-thin oldster. ‘Now the great prognosticator of Quon speaks? Now? When it’s too damned late? What use is that? Faugh!’ She turned on her foot and waved the other two to follow.
Orjin watched them go. Nothing of what transpired had come as a surprise to him, save that last comment. The old fellow had the right of it. From now onward he would be the prey. He just hoped to prove a fox rather than a mouse.
Later, he met with a large portion of his troops in a broad square surrounded by the Quon merchant warehouses. Atop a loading dock, in his thick grey bearskin cloak, he raised his hands for their attention. ‘Take all the food you can carry!’ he shouted. ‘Load any mules and carts! Prepare for a damned long march! Then,’ and he waved to the warehouses, ‘burn everything behind you!’
A great roaring cheer answered that, and a chant of a word from some quarters. He climbed down to Terath and Prevost Jeral. ‘What’s that they’re saying?’ he asked Jeral.
She smiled in answer. ‘They like you, so you’ve earned a name. Sort of a title.’
‘What is it?’
‘Greymane.’
He laughed, and pulled a hand through his long greying hair. ‘Well … better than Greybeard, I suppose.’
* * *
Heboric walked the main trader road of Itko Kan that ran as a spine along the thin north–south conglomeration of united city states. It lay far from the coast, as a precaution against the ever-present threat of pirate raids from Malaz and Nap. Also, as an inland route, it served as an unofficial border with Kan’s warlike neighbour, Dal Hon.
It was winter, and thus cold and wet. At places the road was nothing more than a mud track of pools and glutinous ruts. Protected only by sandals as he slogged through the muck, his feet were sodden, caked in mud, and frozen all day. He was in no particular hurry, and so he chose a leisurely progress from one wayside inn or horse-post to the next. Each evening, by the fire of one such establishment, he would warm his feet and wait to be served whatever fare his obvious calling as priest might garner from the innkeeper. Sometimes it was a full hot meal; other times he was offered leavings no better than those meant for dogs.
So did he make his way north, aiming, roughly, for the great city state of Li Heng.
Fellow travellers came and went: mounted messengers, merchant caravans, local farmers and craftsmen and women. He passed the time with a few, but most took in his boar tattoos and moved on, as the Great Boar was, among many things, one of the gods of war.
Outside Traly he came upon a richly caparisoned wagon – the conveyance of some noblewoman – with an armed escort of ten men-at-arms. The rear wheels were stuck in the mud up to the axle and half the guards were down in the muck pushing while the noblewoman within berated them.
Shaking his head, Heboric clambered down into the ruts to help. With his aid, and the driver whipping the four horses, the wagon lurched free.
The guards nodded their wary thanks and took up their arms. Heboric tried to shake the mud from his legs.
‘You will attend me, priest!’ came a command from the covered wagon.
Heboric raised a questioning brow to the guard captain, who nodded him closer. ‘Yes, O noble-born?’ he asked.
‘Walk with me. I would have your prayers – gods know I have need of them!’ The wagon rocked onward and Heboric kept pace. ‘Where do you travel?’ she demanded.
‘To the Valley of Hermits, east of Li Heng.’
‘Excellent! Our path is similar. I myself am for the new sanctuary of Burn to pray for the welfare of my family. Are you intent upon becoming an ascetic yourself?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I would ask questions of them.’
‘Ah, you are on a quest for knowledge.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, join your earnest entreaties to mine. I am so very worried by the fecklessness of this new generation. They know only to spend money like water and have no concern for the future.’
Heboric crooked a smile – having heard that very complaint from his own elders.
‘Tell me,’ the ancient demanded, ‘have you seen the Holy Enclosure of Fener at Vor?’
‘Indeed I have, mother.’
‘Tell me of it.’
For the remainder of the day Heboric described the situation of the enclosure, its location and layout. The old Kanian aristocrat then questioned him thoroughly as to its rites and rituals; it seemed she was a dedicated student of all the gods’ practices and obeisances. Her guards, he noted, appeared quite relieved to have a new target for her ceaseless interrogation.
Three days’ travel passed in this manner, the Kanian elder, Lady Warin – who, it turned out, was a distant relation of the Kan and Chulalorn line – demanding an account of every scrap of eldritch worship or rite that Heboric had ever come across – which was extensive, as he considered himself something of a historian of the field.
On the fourth day the slow slogging progress of the heavy wagon was interrupted by three mounted figures blocking the road. Lady Warin’s guards immediately drew their weapons, their captain calling, ‘What is the meaning of this?’
The central figure kneed her mount forward. ‘It is what it looks like,’ she answered, rather lazily. ‘The lady will hand over all her coin and jewellery.’
Heboric eyed the bandit woman. She wore a ragged cloak, yes, but beneath he believed he saw the glint of blackened mail. And three horses? Rich bandits indeed. ‘Captain,’ he called, ‘have her shrug off that rag she’s wearing.’
The captain waved the three away with a shake of his sword. ‘Choose your targets with more care, fools. This is Lady Warin, an elder of the Kan line!’
‘I know she is,’ the bandit leader answered, as lazily as before, and Heboric gripped the wagon’s side. No! ‘Fire!’
A fusillade of crossbow bolts came flying from the woods and Lady Warin’s guards all grunted, taken by multiple shots. Heboric himself crumpled, a leg kicked out from under him by the impact of a bolt.
He lay in the mud, panting, while the jangling of harnesses announced the approach of the three mounts. Through the roaring in his ears he heard the old woman say, with great disparagement, ‘So … are we to return to the old dynastic wars?’
The bandit woman dismounted. Heboric noted from under the wagon that her boots were tall and of fine leather. ‘They never ended,’ the woman answered, and the wagon rocked as she climbed inside. Reaching up, snarling with the effort, Heboric pulled himself upright.