‘Thank you,’ said Conn. As he urged his mount forward, the sentry spoke again. ‘It may take you some time. The crowds will be coming back from the execution.’
Conn’s stomach turned. ‘Who was killed?’ he asked.
‘A Stone spy, by all accounts. Didn’t see it myself. Been on watch since dawn.’
Conn rode on. He did not turn left at the forge, but headed towards the town square, where he had seen the crowds gather. People were streaming past him as he rode, but he ignored them and at last came to a gibbet erected on a wooden platform.
Banouin’s body was hanging from a bronze hook that had been plunged between his shoulders. The face was savagely beaten, and one eye had been put out. Blood had drenched the little merchant’s clothes, and – incongruously – Conn saw that one of his shoes was missing. A rock flew past Conn’s shoulder, striking Banouin’s dead face. Conn turned to see several small boys, giggling and laughing.
Fighting for control, Conn turned away from the corpse and rode back down the main street, swinging right at the forge and seeking out the house of Diatka. He had, at that moment, no plan, no thought of action.
As he rode he glanced at the people. In the main they were a tall race, fair haired and handsome. Some of the men were wearing Perdii cloaks of sky blue, stained with a red stripe down the centre. A woman ran across the path of his pony and into a side street. She was lean, her dark hair streaked with silver. The image of Vorna came into his mind. Conn sighed as he thought of riding back to Three Streams and telling her of her new husband’s death. She had come to him on the night before the journey, tapping at his door, and walking with him out into the meadow.
‘My powers are gone now,’ she had said. ‘But I remember, when first I saw the Foreigner, seeing his geasa. Watch out, Connavar, for a lion with eyes of blood. It may be a crest, or a statue. It may even be real.’
‘I will watch out for him,’ he had promised. Now he had broken that promise, and it meant nothing that Banouin had insisted he remain behind. Guilt fell like rain on his soul.
Coming to the orchard he located the sign of gold and oak and dismounted. Tying the ponies to a rail he approached the house, and rapped upon the door. It was opened by a middle-aged man, stoop shouldered and bald, wearing a long robe of blue wool.
‘What is it?’ he asked, peering shortsightedly at Conn’s face.
‘You are the merchant, Diatka?’
‘I am,’ snapped the man. ‘What do you want?’
‘I have been sent with goods to trade,’ said Conn.
‘Who sent you?’ asked Diatka, his voice becoming more friendly.
‘Garshon of Goriasa,’ said Conn, instantly.
Diatka stepped out into the sunlight. ‘And what are you carrying?’
‘Hides from the black and white cattle of the Rigante, brooches cast by Riamfada the Grafter, and twenty jugs of uisge.’
Diatka said nothing for a moment, then he smiled and invited Conn inside the house. The floor was covered with fine rugs, the main room filled with boxes and chests, piled one on top of the other. Diatka threaded his way through them, coming at last to a small space near the fire, in which were two chairs with a small table between them. Offering Conn a seat he said: ‘As you can see I am having difficulty moving the goods I already have. It is the coming war. The eastern trade routes are largely closed to me. My storehouse is overflowing with merchandise. I am sorry I cannot help you. However, let me offer you a goblet of wine.’
Moving back through the boxes he disappeared for several minutes. Conn stared around the room. The walls were covered with ornaments, paintings, rugs, weapons. But his eyes were drawn to a round shield of bronze, emblazoned with the head of a lion. Conn clenched his fists and fought for calm. When Diatka returned he was carrying two silver goblets, one of which he passed to Conn; the other he placed on the table before him. Then he sat down and leaned back in his chair. ‘These are not good days for merchants,’ he said. ‘So, how is Garshon?’ The youngster put his goblet on the table.