Conalin watched as the hawk fed.
‘That is unusual,’ said a voice. Conalin leapt like a startled deer, and swung round, fists raised. Nogusta was standing beside him. The boy’s heart was pounding. He had not heard the black man approach. Nogusta appeared not to notice Conalin’s reaction. ‘Hawks usually feed on feather,’ he said. ‘They need to be wedded to fur by a falconer.’
‘How can they survive on feathers?’ asked Conalin, anxious to seem unperturbed by the warrior’s silent approach.
Nogusta smiled. ‘Not literally feathers. It means they generally feed on other birds, pigeon and – if the hawk is clever enough – duck. This hawk probably escaped his handler and returned to the wild.’
Conalin sighed. ‘I thought the rabbits were free here,’ said Conalin.
‘They are free,’ said Nogusta.
‘No. I meant really free. Free from danger.’
‘Nothing that walks, flies, swims or breathes is ever free from danger. Speaking of which you should not stray too far from the camp.’
Nogusta turned and walked away into the darkness. Conalin caught up with him. ‘If you do save the queen,’ he said, ‘what reward will you get?’
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‘I don’t know. I haven’t given it any thought.’
‘Will you become rich?’
‘Perhaps.’
They reached the edge of the camp and Nogusta paused. ‘Go and get some rest. We will have to push hard tomorrow.’
‘Is that why you are doing this?’ persisted Conalin. ‘For the reward?’
‘No. My reasons are far more selfish.’
Conalin took a step towards the camp. Then another question occurred to him and he swung round. But Nogusta was nowhere to be seen.
Gathering his blankets Conalin lay down beside Pharis. There was so much here that he didn’t understand. What could be more selfish than labouring for a personal reward?
Life in the city had been brutally hard, and Conalin had been alone for much of his young life. Even so he felt he understood the nature of human existence. Happiness was a full belly, joy was having enough food for a full belly tomorrow, and love was a commodity mostly associated with money. Even his love of Pharis was ultimately selfish, for Conalin gained great pleasure from her company. It was that pleasure, he believed, which led him to yearn for her. Like the men and women who gathered at the Chiatze House, and smoked the long pipe, paying for pleasure dreams, and returning again and again, with haunted eyes and shrinking purses.
Conalin had no recollection of his parents. His first memories were of a small room, packed with children. Some of them were crying. All of them were filthy. Conalin had been tiny then, perhaps three or four years of age. He recalled the baby, lying on a soiled blanket. He remembered prodding it with his finger. It did not
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move. The lack of movement had surprised him. A fly had landed on the baby’s open mouth, and slowly walked over the blue lips. Some time later a tall man had removed the baby.
Conalin couldn’t remember the man’s face. It had seemed so high and far away. But he remembered the legs, long and thin, encased in loose-fitting black leggings. His time in the house of gloom had not been happy, for his belly was rarely full, and there were many beatings.
After that there had been several homes. One, at least, had been warm and comfortable. But the price of that warmth had been too high, and he pushed the memories away.
Life on the streets had been better.
Conalin had even begun to think of himself as a wise man. He knew where to steal his breakfast, and could always find a warm, safe place to sleep, even in the depths of harsh winters. The soldiers of the Watch could never catch him, and his troubles with the street gangs had largely ended when he had killed Cleft-tongue. The gangs avoided him then, for Cleft-tongue had been feared, and anyone who could kill him in one-to-one combat was not to be trifled with. Conalin remembered the fight without any pleasure. He hadn’t wanted to kill anyone. All he desired was to be left alone. But Cleft-tongue would have none of it. ‘You steal on my patch, you pay rent,’ he had said. Conalin had ignored him. Then, one night, the burly youth had come at him with a knife. Conalin was unarmed and had run. He recalled the laughter which followed him on his flight. Angry he had stolen a butcher’s cleaver, and returned to where the gang had settled down for the night, in a deserted alleyway. He had walked up to where Cleft-tongue sat, called