'I fear, sire, that the Queen has. . moved to her second realm.'
'Second? Oh I see, Goddess of Wisdom, Queen of the Dead. Do you think so? When will she come back?'
'How could any mortal man predict such a happening, sire? The gods are far above mere mortals like myself.'
'I suppose that we are. I think you are correct in your assumption, Embalmer. She is ruling the dead now. I expect she will be happy. A lot of our friends are there to serve her. Many, many. Do you think that's why I sent them all there? Of course it was. I knew Bokat would return to the dead, and I sent lots of her friends ahead to welcome her. I only pretended to be angry with them.' He smiled happily and clapped his hands. 'What is this for?' he asked, lifting a long, brass instrument with a forked end.
'It is an. . aid to me, sire, in my work. It helps to. . make the object of my attentions remain beautiful always.'
'I see. It is very sharp, and wickedly hooked. And why all the knives and scrapers?'
'The dead have little use for their internal organs, sire. They putrefy. For a body to remain beautiful they must be removed.' The God-King stood and wandered to where Chorin-Tsu's chest stood open by the door. He peered inside, then lifted out a glass jar in which were stored many sets of crystal eyes.
'I think I shall leave you to your craft, Master Em-balmer,' he said brightly. 'I have many matters to attend to. There are so many of Bokat's friends who will want to follow her. I must prepare their names.'
Chorin-Tsu bowed deeply, and said nothing.
Sieben was wrong. When Majon broached the subject of the prophecy with Druss, there was no immediate refusal. The Drenai warrior listened, his face impassive, his cold, pale eyes expressionless. As the ambassador concluded, Druss rose from his chair. 'I'll think on it,' he said.
'But, Druss, there are so many considerations that. .'
'I said I'll think on it. Now leave.' The coldness of the warrior's tone cut through Majon like a winter wind.
During the late afternoon Druss, dressed casually in a wide-sleeved shirt of soft brown leather, woollen leggings and knee-length boots, walked through the city centre, oblivious to the crowds surging around him: servants buying supplies and wares for their households, men gathered around inns and taverns, women moving through the marketplaces and shops, lovers walking hand in hand in the parks. Druss weaved his way among them, his mind focused on the ambassador's plea.
When slavers had attacked Druss's village and captured the young women — Rowena among them — Druss had instinctively followed the raiders, hunting them down. That had been right! There were no moral or political questions to be addressed.
But here and now it was all blurred. 'There would be honour in such a decision,' Majon had assured him. And why? Because thousands of Drenai lives would be saved. Giving in to the wishes of a madman, suffering humiliation and defeat? This was honour?
Yet to win could mean, at worst, a terrible war. Was winning a fight worth such a risk, Majon had asked. For the satisfaction of pounding a man to the ground?
Druss crossed the Park of Giants and cut to the left, through the Arch of Marble and on towards the low Valley of the Swans in which Klay's house was situated. Here were the homes of the rich, the roads lined with trees, the houses elegantly designed, the grounds boasting small lakes and fountains or beautifully sculpted statues set around winding paths which ran through immaculately tended gardens.
Everything spoke of money, enormous amounts of gold. Druss had been raised in mountain communities where homes were built of rough-cut timber sealed with clay; places where coin was as rare as a whore's honour. Now he stood gazing at palace after palace of white marble, with gilded pillars, painted frescoes, carved reliefs, each topped with red terracotta tile or black Lentrian slate.
Walking on, he sought out the home of the Gothir Champion. Two sentries stood before the high, wrought-iron gates; both men wore silver breastplates, and were armed with short swords. The house was imposing, though not as ostentatious as the other homes nearby. It was square-built with a sloping red-tile roof, and boasting no ornate columns, no frescoes, nor paint work. The home of the Champion was of simple white stone. The main door was set beneath a stone lintel, and the many windows were functional, displaying no coloured glass, no leaded figures, no ornamentation at all. Much to his own annoyance Druss found himself liking the man who owned the house, which was set amidst gardens boasting willow and beech.
There was one gesture to the dramatic. A statue of the fighter, almost twice life-size, was set upon a pedestal at the centre of a well-tended lawn. Like the house it was of white stone, unpainted and unadorned, and showed Klay with his fists raised defiantly.
For a while Druss stood on the broad avenue outside the gates. A movement in the shadows caught his eye and he saw a small boy crouched by the bole of an elm tree. Druss grinned at him. 'Waiting for a glimpse of the great man, are you?' he asked amiably. The boy nodded, but said nothing. He was painfully thin and scrawny, his eyes deep-set, his face pinched and tight. Druss fished in the small pouch at his belt, producing a silver coin which he tossed to the urchin. 'Go on with you. Buy yourself some food.'
Catching the coin the child stowed it in his ragged tunic — but remained where he was.
'You really want to see him, don't you? Even hunger can't draw you away? Come with me then, boy. I'll take you in.' The child's face brightened instantly and he scrambled forward. Standing he was even thinner than he had appeared, his elbows and knees seeming swollen larger than biceps or thighs. Beside the huge form of the Drenai fighter he appeared no more than a frail shadow.
Together they walked to the gates, where the sentries stepped forward, blocking the way.
'I am Druss. I have been invited here.'
'The beggar boy hasn't been invited,' said one of the guards. Druss stepped in close, his cold gaze locking to the man's eyes, their faces only inches apart. The guard stepped back, trying to create space between himself and Druss, but the Drenai followed him and the man's breastplate clanged against the gate. 'I invited him, laddie. You have a problem with that?'
'No. No problem.'
The sentries stepped aside, pushing open the wrought-iron gates. Druss and the boy moved slowly on. The axeman paused to gaze at the statue, then once more scanned the house and the grounds. The statue was out of place here, at odds with the natural contours of the garden. As he approached the house an elderly servant opened the main door and bowed.
'Welcome, Lord Druss,' he said.
'I am no Lord — nor would ever wish to be. This child was waiting in the shadows for a glimpse of Klay. I promised him a closer look.'
'Mmm,' said the old man. 'I think he could do with a meal first. I'll take him to the kitchen. My master is waiting for you, sir, in the training grounds at the rear of the house. Just follow the hallway; you cannot miss it.' Taking the boy by the hand the old man moved away.
Druss strode on. In the grounds behind the house there were some twenty athletes engaged in training, or sparring. The area was well designed, with three sand circles, punching-bags, weights, massage tables, and two fountains supplying running water. At the far end was a deep pool where Druss could see several men swimming. The setting was simple and he warmed to it, feeling the tension drain from him. Two men were sparring in one of the sand circles while a third, the colossal Klay, stood close by watching intently. In the fading sunlight Klay's short-cropped blond hair shone like gold. His arms were folded and Druss noted the powerful muscles of his shoulders and back, and the way his body tapered to waist and hips. Built for speed and power, thought Druss.
'Break away!' ordered Klay. As the fighters moved apart the Gothir Champion stepped into the circle. 'You are too stiff, Galas,' he said, 'and that left hand moves like a sick turtle. I think your training is out of harmony. You are building weight in your shoulders and arms, which is good for power, but you are ignoring the lower body. The most deadly punches are powered by the legs, the force flowing up through the hips and then to the shoulders and arms. When it reaches the fist the impact is like a lightning bolt. Tomorrow you will work with Shonan.' Swinging to the other man he laid a hand on his shoulder. 'You have great skill, boy, but you lack instinct. You have courage and style, but not the heart of a fighter. You see with your eyes only. Shonan tells me your spear-work is excellent. I think we will concentrate on that for the time being.' Both men bowed and moved away.