‘I shall,’ he said, tucking the brooch into his saddlebag.
On the journey south to the sea, which had taken two months, they crossed many tribal lands, visiting scores of settlements. Banouin traded at many of them, buying cloth, jewellery and ornately carved daggers and hunting knives. By the time they reached the coast the original eleven pack ponies were heavily burdened, and Banouin had leased nine more. As they rode Banouin had pointed out landmarks during the day, and on several occasions urged Conn to study their backtrail. ‘You’ll be surprised how different the land will look on the return journey, when autumn strips the trees, or the rivers swell. Always look back, fix in your mind the changing landscapes.’ He taught Conn about the different tribes, their beliefs and their codes. But rarely did he speak of Vorna. Conn began to wonder if the merchant was regretting his decision to wed.
On the last night, as they camped in a small wood overlooking the chalk cliffs, he broached the subject. Banouin smiled. ‘Regrets? No I have none, Conn. I have lived too long alone.’
‘Your decision to wed was rather sudden,’ Conn pointed out.
‘Aye, it was. I am a careful man. Too cautious perhaps. But on the night of the feast she released in me a need for joy that I had forgotten. This will be my last journey, Conn. I have decided to settle down, and live the rest of my days among the Rigante.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Do? I will teach, and I will learn. Oh, I will still trade, but no more long journeys. I will walk the mountains with Vorna. She can teach me about herbs and Rigante lore.’ .
‘Will you not miss the travelling?’
‘I would – if the world had remained as it was when I began. But it is changing, Conn. And not, I fear, for the better.’
The following morning they had led the ponies down to the harbour. Conn’s heart sank when he saw the little ship, with its flat, open deck and its two sails. It seemed to him to be flimsy, and when he gazed out at the grey, forbidding sea he was filled with a sense of foreboding.
He felt it now even more strongly as he sat beneath the canvas sheet, the rain hissing down, the wind howling about him. The storm continued steadily for three long hours, then began to ease away. A bright shaft of sunlight bathed the rear deck. Banouin pushed back the canvas and stood. Conn rose beside him, shaking the surplus water from the sheet. ‘I do not like ships,’ he said.
‘If you can think of a better way to cross the sea I’d like to hear it,’ said Banouin, stretching his back. He groaned. ‘I am getting too old to sit under canvas. Tonight we will rest in a wonderful tavern, where the food is glorious, the entertainment divine, and the beds soft. It will be a great experience for you.’ Reaching into the pouch at his side Banouin produced four silver coins, which he passed to Conn.
‘What are these for?’
‘You may find use for them,’ said Banouin, with a wide smile. ‘Pleasure in Goriasa is never free.’
Goriasa proved an unpleasant surprise to Conn. Banouin had told him it was a large settlement, and Conn had pictured a village perhaps twice the size of Three Streams. The reality was vastly different. Goriasa was a city that flowed in a huge, ugly crescent around a sheltered bay. Thousands of wooden houses, storage buildings, stables and paddocks were crushed together, separated only by narrow strips of muddy, foul-smelling earth. The few areas of open ground were covered by market stalls, and thronged with crowds.
Banouin and Conn threaded their mounts through the mass, coming at last to a tall storehouse. A grizzled old man with only one ear stepped out to meet them. He and Banouin spoke, then the man led the ponies into the building. On foot now Banouin and Conn moved out into the crowd. Conn was uncomfortable. His experience of large amounts of people was limited to feast days, where everyone was happy or drunk, and there was dancing and joy. Here there was no joy. The people all seemed in a hurry, their faces strained. They did not greet one another, nor did they make eye contact.