Garshon walked from the room, down a long corridor, and into a small side room. Four men were there. One had a heavily bandaged shoulder, another had three splints on his broken leg.
‘What happened?’ asked Garshon.
One of the uninjured men, a thin, balding fellow with a pock-marked face, spoke up. ‘We had him, but then this youngster ran in. He broke Varik’s leg and stabbed Jain. He was very fast, Garshon. And we didn’t know if he was alone. So we ran.’ Garshon said nothing. They knew the boy was alone. But he had frightened them. He turned to Varik.
‘How is the leg?’
‘The break is clean – just below the knee. It will be weeks, though, before I can walk.’
‘Why did Valanus let you live?’
‘The boy told him not to kill me. I tell you, Garshon, my heart almost gave out.’
‘He asked him, you mean?’
‘No. He just said: “Don’t kill him.” For a heartbeat I thought he was going to do it anyway. But he didn’t, thank Taranis!’
‘What do you think the boy would have done had Valanus stabbed you?’
Varik shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Was he carrying a blade?’
‘Yes. A shining knife.’
‘Describe the scene. Exactly.’ Varik did so. Garshon listened, made him repeat it, then turned away. As he went to leave the room the pock-marked man spoke again.
‘Why don’t you just have the bastard killed in his bed?’
‘I might have you killed in your bed,’ said Garshon. ‘You think I want Jasaray as an enemy? There is no way I can kill Valanus in my own home. However, I had thought that four of you would be enough. How foolish of me. But then I could not know that you would be surprised by a boy.’
Leaving them he wandered out along the corridor and down into the hall. Women were dancing on the raised dais, and he scanned the crowd of watchers, locating Banouin and the lad. For some time he stood and stared at the young man. Then he summoned a serving maid and sent her to Banouin.
Returning to his rooms he laid out two more goblets and another jug of wine. Moments later Banouin entered, followed by the Rigante youngster. The boy moved well, perfectly balanced, like a fighter. Garshon gestured his guests to be seated, then poured them wine. ‘Your young friend has done me a great service, Banouin,’ he said. The Stone merchant seemed surprised, and glanced at his companion. ‘He rescued a guest of mine from robbers. I am in his debt.’ He smiled at the youngster.
‘It was nothing,’ said the youth, his voice deep and resonant. A voice that would one day hold power, thought Garshon. He rolled the name around his mind. Connavar. He had heard it before. His single eye noted the jagged scar on the youngster’s cheek, and the green and gold eyes. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you are the boy who fought the bear and saved the princess.’
‘There was no princess,’ said Connavar. ‘Though there was a bear.’
Garshon pointed to the knife at his belt. ‘Is that the blade that struck the beast?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I see it?’
Connavar rose, drew the knife and handed it to the merchant hilt first. ‘It is very beautiful,’ said Garshon. ‘If you ever consider selling it .. .’
‘I will not,’ said the youngster.
‘I do not blame you.’ Handing the knife back he turned to the astonished Banouin. ‘I take it your young friend has not mentioned his heroics?’
‘Not as yet,’ said Banouin, seeking to mask his irritation.
‘He tackled four robbers. Broke one man’s leg, stabbed another in the shoulder. The others ran. He was very compassionate. My guest would have killed one of them, but Connavar stopped him.’ The pale blue gaze moved to Connavar. ‘Why was that? Surely the world would be a better place for fewer robbers?’
‘I have killed men who deserved to die,’ said Connavar. ‘But I did so in combat. The robber was defenceless.’ He shrugged. ‘I have no regrets.’
‘Something only the young can say,’ observed Garshon. Moving to a chest he opened the lid and lifted clear a pouch, which he tossed to Connavar. ‘There are twenty silver pieces there. Please accept them as a mark of my gratitude.’