`Horace, you can't fight if you can't see!' Halt repeated. His voice was strained now, showing the depth of concern he felt for his young friend. I should never have got him into this, he told himself bitterly.
`I can see, Halt. I just can't focus,' Horace told him, with the ghost of a smile. 'Now let's go. The scrutineers are waiting.'
Chapter 42
The purple-cloaked figure slid easily through the last-minute customers round the food and drink vending stalls. As he approached the tall white pavilion he slowed his pace a little, glancing left and right to see if there was anybody watching him, or standing guard over the pavilion.
But he saw no sign of surveillance and walked directly to the entrance to the pavilion. As before, the tent flaps were fastened on the outside, which meant there could be nobody in the tent. Quickly, his strong fingers undid the knots. As the last one fell loose, he resisted the temptation to look around. Such an action would only appear furtive, he knew. Far better to simply walk in as if he had every right to be here.
He slipped the dagger from the scabbard under his left arm – it never hurt to take precautions – and stepped quickly into the tent, allowing the flap to fall back into place.
He let out a pent-up breath, relaxing. There was nobody in the tent, but the water jug stood on the table where he had last seen it. Quickly, he crossed to the table, picked up the jug and poured its contents onto the ground, watching in satisfaction as the drugged water soaked into the dirt.
`And that's the end of the evidence,' he said softly, in a satisfied voice, a second before something heavy and hard crashed into his head, behind the ear, and everything went black.
`So you say,' Will said. He re-sheathed his saxe knife, satisfied that the Genovesan was unconscious. He rolled the man over on his back and searched him quickly, disarming him as he did so. He glanced curiously at the crossbow that had been slung over the man's shoulder. It was a graceless weapon, he thought, heavy and utilitarian. He tossed it to one side and resumed searching the unconscious man. There was a dagger in his belt, another in each of his boots and one strapped to his right calf. He also found the empty scabbard under the man's left arm. He whistled softly.
`Planning on starting a war?' he asked. The Genovesan, naturally, made no reply.
Will dug into his belt pouch and produced thumb and ankle cuffs. He quickly secured the man's hands in front of him and trussed his ankles, leaving enough slack so he would be able to hobble awkwardly, but not run.
Will sat back on his heels, thinking quickly. They needed proof, he knew. He'd arrived a few seconds before the Genovesan, approaching from the opposite side and entering by cutting through the canvas at the rear corner, where the privy was positioned. That way, the outer knotson the door were left undisturbed. Unseen by the assassin, he had watched as he poured away the remaining water. A second too late, he had emerged from the privy and slammed the brass pommel of his saxe just behind the man's ear.
There was something in the back of his mind – something that would help him connect the Genovesan with the drugged water. Then he had it. When he had poured the glass for Horace, he had heard the tinkle of ice. Yet the ice he'd placed in the water should have melted long ago. The Genovesan must have replenished it and there was only one place he could have done so.
He looked at the man, saw that he was still unconscious and hurried outside the tent. One of Sean's marshals, tasked with keeping an eye on the pavilion – as well as watching for the inevitable pickpockets who'd be working the crowd – was strolling nearby. He turned and approached quickly as Will hailed him.
`Keep an eye on him,' Will said, jerking his thumb at the unconscious Genovesan inside the pavilion. The marshal's eyes widened at the sight but he recognised Will as one of the Sunrise Warrior's retainers and nodded agreement.
`I'll be back,' Will told him and hurried towards the drink stalls.
There was one stall selling ice. It was where Will had bought his supply previously and, presumably, where the Genovesan had done the same. Ice was a rare commodity. It would have been cut in large blocks, high in the mountains during winter, then packed in straw and brought down, to be stored deep in a cool cellar somewhere. The vendor looked up as Will approached. Initially, he'd been reluctant to sell some of his ice without selling a drink as well, but the young man had paid well. He nodded a greeting.
`Will it be more ice for you, your honour?' he asked. But Will cut him off abruptly.
`Come with me,' he said. 'Right away.'
He was young and fresh faced, but there was an unmistakable air of authority about him and it never occurred to the ice vendor to argue. He called to his wife to mind the stall and hurried to follow the fast-moving figure in the grey-green cloak. As they entered the pavilion, his eyes also goggled at the sight of the unconscious man lying bound on the grass.
`Did he buy ice from you?' he demanded and the man nodded, instantly.
`He did, your honour. Said it was for the mighty Sunrise Warrior.' He glanced around the tent and his eye fell on the water jug. 'Fetched it in that jug, as I recall,' he added, wondering what this was all about. Then, making sure that he couldn't be blamed for anything, he volunteered more information.
`He was watching earlier when you bought the ice. I assumed he was with you.'
So that was it. Will guessed that the Genovesan, when he had drugged the water, had added ice so that the chill would mask the taste. Or simply make the water more appealing. Yet he would hardly have done so if he hadn't known there was already ice in the jug. He looked at the marshal and the vendor. In the background, he could hear cheering welling up from the arena and realised that toomuch time had passed while he had been occupied with this problem. The formalities must be over and Horace would be preparing to face the giant islander.
He looked at the two men.
`Come with me!' he ordered. He recovered his bow from behind the privy screen and gestured at the Genovesan, now stirring groggily. 'And give me a hand with that!'
As he and the marshal dragged the bleary-eyed assassin to his feet, he heard the single note of a trumpet. The combat had started.
`You can't do this,' Halt said out of the side of his mouth as he accompanied Horace to the centre of the field. He was carrying Horace's shield and sword, using the shield to keep a surreptitious pressure on the young man's arm so he could guide his footsteps.
`That man! What is that man doing?' Tennyson's voice rang out across the arena, rising above the cheers that rang out from both sides of the field. Halt looked and saw the white-robed figure had come out of his chair and was standing, pointing at him, shouting his protest.
`Just get me to the starting point, Halt. I'll be fine,' Horace said, equally quietly. He could hear Sean Carrick replying to the priest's protest, stating that Halt was acting as Horace's shield bearer, which was allowed within the rules. Horace allowed himself a bitter smile. Arguing over such fine points of procedure was unimportant to him. He was wondering how he was going to fight when all he could see of Gerard was a massive, blurred shape.
`His presence is a breach of the rules! He must remove himself from the field!' Tennyson shouted.
Sean drew breath to reply but stopped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Surprised, he turned to see the King had left his throne and was standing behind him.