‘Good morning to you, Nogusta,’ said the officer. ‘You fought well yesterday.’
‘He does that,’ said Bison, with a wide, gap-toothed grin. ‘You’re the son of Catoris, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good man,’ said Bison. ‘You could always rely on the Third Lancers when he was in command. He was a hard bastard, though. Ten lashes I got when I didn’t salute fast enough. Still, that’s the nobility for you.’ He swung to Nogusta. ‘You want more pie?’ The black man shook his head and Bison ambled away towards one of the food tents.
Dagorian grinned. ‘Did he just praise my father, or insult him?’ he asked.
‘A little of both,’ said Nogusta.
‘An unusual man.’
‘Bison or your father?’
‘Bison. Are you entered in any of the tournaments?’
5°
‘No,’ said the black man.
‘Why not? You are a superb swordsman.’
‘I don’t play games with swords. And you?’
‘Yes,’ answered Dagorian. ‘In the sabre tourney.’
‘You will face Antikas Karios in the final.’
Dagorian looked surprised. ‘How can you know that?’
Nogusta lifted his hand and touched the centre of his brow. ‘I have the Third Eye,’ he said.
‘And what is that?’
The black man smiled. ‘It is a Gift – or perhaps a curse – I was born with.’
‘Do I win or lose?’
‘The Gift is not that precise,’ Nogusta told him, with a smile. ‘It strikes like lightning, leaving an image. I can neither predict nor direct it. It comes or it. . .’ His smile faded, and his expression hardened. Dagorian looked closely at the man. It seemed he was no longer aware of the officer’s presence. Then he sighed. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I was momentarily distracted.’
‘You saw another vision?’ asked Dagorian.
‘Yes.’
‘Did it concern the sabre tourney?’
‘No, it did not. I am sure you will acquit yourself well. Tell me how is the White Wolf?’ he asked, suddenly.
‘He is well, and preparing plans for the return home. Why do you ask?’
‘Malikada will try to kill him.’ The words were spoken softly, but with great authority. The black man was not venturing an opinion, but stating a fact.
‘This is what you saw?’
‘I need no mystic talent to make that prediction.’
‘Then I think you are wrong,’ said Dagorian. ‘Malikada is the king’s general now. Banelion does not
5*
stand in his way. Indeed he will be going home in three days, to retire.’
‘Even so his life is in danger.’
‘Perhaps you should speak to the general about this?’ said Dagorian, stiffly.
Nogusta shrugged. There is no need. He knows it as well as I. Cerez was Malikada’s favourite. He believed him to be almost invincible. Yesterday he learned a hard lesson. He will want revenge.’
‘If that is true will he not seek revenge against you also?’
‘Indeed he will,’ agreed Nogusta.
‘You seem remarkably unperturbed by the prospect.’
‘Appearances can be deceiving,’ Nogusta told him.
As the morning wore on Nogusta’s words continued to haunt the young officer. They had been spoken with such quiet certainty that the more Dagorian thought of them, the more convinced he became of the truth they contained. Malikada was not known as a forgiving man. There were many stories among the Drenai officers concerning the Ventrian prince and his methods. One story had it that Malikada once beat a servant to death for ruining one of his shirts. As far as Dagorian knew there was no evidence to support the tale, but it highlighted the popular view of Malikada.
Such a man would indeed nurse a grudge against Banelion.
With at least another two hours before the start of his duties Dagorian decided to seek out the general. He loved the old man in a way he had never learned to love his own father. Often he had tried to work out why, but the answer escaped him. Both were hard, cold men, addicted to war and the methods of war. And yet with
Banelion he could relax, finding words easy and conversation smooth. With his father his throat would tighten, his brain melt. Clear and concise thoughts would travel from his mind to his mouth, appearing to become drunken on the way, spilling out – at least to himself – as stuttering gibberish.