The boy swung round, fists clenched. The merchant emerged from the shadows and sat down on a long wooden box. Conn darted back to the pack, drew out the blade and stood ready.
‘You intend to fight me?’ enquired Banouin.
‘You’ll not turn me into a toad, Foreigner,’ said the boy.
‘I would have, had you tried to leave with my knife. However, since you did not come here to steal, why did you come?’
Conn shrugged. ‘It was a dare. Do they have dares where you come from?’
‘Yes,’ said Banouin. ‘A friend once dared me to climb a rock face without a rope. Sixty feet high it was.’
‘Did you do it?’ .
‘Almost. I fell and broke my leg. After that I avoided stupid dares.’
At that moment a large rat scuttled from behind the packs. Banouion drew something from his sleeve. His right hand swept up, then down. A bright blade flashed across the room and the boy saw the creature impaled against the far wall. Conn peered at the body and the small iron throwing knife jutting from it.
‘Rats spread disease,’ said Banouin. ‘Now, what were we talking about?’
‘Stupid dares,’ said the boy.
‘Ah yes. Put back my dagger, retrieve my knife and come into the house. There we will talk – if you are still not frightened, that is?’
‘I’ll be there,’ promised the boy. Banouin doubted it and returned to his house. Moments later Conn appeared, carrying the throwing knife, cleaned of blood. They had sat and talked for an hour. At first Conn was ill at ease, but soon he was all questions. Could he learn to throw a knife? Would Banouin teach him? Where had the Foreigner come from? What were the lands like to the south? From that day they had struck up a friendship which both enjoyed.
Often, in the evenings, he and Conn would sit on the boardwalk outside Banouin’s home and talk of events in the wider world – a world of mystery and adventure to the Rigante youngster. Banouin had journeyed far, and often travelled upon ships that crossed the great water to the lands beyond. Conn had never seen a ship, and found the prospect of journeying on such a vessel dangerously exciting. Also, he had been amazed to learn, the people across the water spoke different languages. When Banouin first told him he had thought it to be a jest of some kind, and when the Foreigner had spoken in his own tongue it sounded like gibberish and Conn had laughed aloud. Yet after a year he had learned many phrases in Banouin’s language.
‘You have a gift for learning and language,’ said the Foreigner one day, following a short conversation in Turgon. ‘Most tribesmen have difficulty in mastering the placement of our verbs.’
‘It is fun,’ Conn told him.
‘Learning should be fun,’ said Banouin. ‘Indeed so should life. The gods know it is short enough.’ His dark eyes fixed to Conn’s gaze. ‘You don’t laugh as much as you did,’ he said. ‘What is wrong?’
Connavar did not want to talk about the private grief in his household, but all the fears and anxieties caused by the separation suddenly flooded his emotions and he found himself telling this outsider the whole terrible story. As he finished he felt a wave of embarrassment. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken of it,’ he said.
‘That’s not true, Conn,’ Banouin told him, gently. ‘That is one of the great advantages of having friends. You can unburden your soul to them and they will not judge you for it. Nor will they repeat what you have said.’
Conn was relieved. ‘But can you understand why they remain apart? They love one another. It was just words. That’s all.’
‘Words are stronger than iron,’ said Banouin. ‘Everything we do – everything we are – is born from words. A man’s prejudices are passed on to him by the words of his father and mother, or by older friends he worships. Religion and myth – though both may be the same – are kept alive by words more than deeds. Last year you broke Govannan’s nose because of words. Are you friends yet?’