‘Talk first. Report later,’ said Touchstone.
Talaban sighed. ‘Do you trust her?’
‘Good woman,’ said Touchstone.
‘Then I shall trust you. We will speak with her.’
‘Wear pretty clothes,’ advised Touchstone. Talaban laughed, the sound rich and almost musical. Sofarita was amazed at the change the laughter wrought in him. Gone was the hardness, replaced by a boyish warmth which radiated harmony.
And yet somehow it filled her with the knowledge of her own impending doom. Rising through the decks she flew back to her body.
As was usual following flight she awoke refreshed, her body rested. She stretched and rose from the chair. A shadow crossed the doorway opposite and she thought Questor Ro must be awake. Then a second shadow flitted across the opening. Sofarita felt a charge in the air, a prickling sensation that made her fearful. Moving swiftly and silently across the room she stepped out into the darkened hallway just in time to see a figure move from the top of the stairs and into the corridor beyond. Reaching out she felt the emotions of the man above. He was thinking of knives, and blood and death. The death of a hated Avatar.
Questor Ro!
Sofarita ran up the stairs. The door to Questor Ro’s room was open. She moved inside. Two men were there. Both wore black scarves about their faces and both carried knives. One was approaching the bed in which the little man was asleep. The knife came up – and slashed down. Sofarita made a sudden gesture with her right hand. The blade stopped inches short of the sleeping man – to the obvious astonishment of the attacker. The second man saw her and swung towards her. His knife dropped from his fingers, clattering on the stone-tiled floor. Questor Ro awoke with a start. The first knifeman tried to stab him again. This time the knife flew from his fingers to the ceiling, where it lay flat, as if upon the floor.
‘What is happening?’ shouted Ro. ‘How dare you … ?’
‘All is well, Questor,’ said Sofarita. ‘These men are Pajists. But they will not harm you.’ Ro glanced up at the knife hovering on the ceiling.
‘They came to kill me,’ he said. ‘I shall summon the Watch.’
‘No,’ said Sofarita. ‘They will return to the man who sent them. He will convey a message to the leader of the Pajists. I shall visit with that leader tomorrow at noon. You,’ she said, pointing to the man by the bed, ‘hold out your hand.’ Slowly he did so. The knife floated slowly down from the ceiling, settling gently into his palm. ‘Leave now, and deliver my message. Say also that there are to be no more attacks.’
The second man scooped up his knife and both assassins edged around Sofarita and out of the room. She heard them run down the stairs.
‘You know the leader of the Pajists?’ asked Ro.
‘I do now,’ she said.
‘Why did you let them go? We could have arrested them all.’
‘To what purpose, Questor? This is not a time for revenge, but for reconciliation. The Pajists have contacts among the tribes. Most notably with the Erek-jhip-zhonad. You will need all their support to prevent the Almecs from domination.’
Ro shivered. ‘Suddenly I am no longer tired,’ he said. ‘I thank the Source you were here.’
The house was an old one, built a century ago for an Avatar family. It was three-storeyed, and dressed with blue-veined white marble. Landscaped gardens flowed around the old house and a stream had been diverted to ripple over terraces adorned with blocks of white stone and multi-coloured pebbles. Flowering trees grew everywhere and the air was heavy with the scent of jasmine.
Mejana sat on a wooden bench, her large frame wrapped in a pale blue shawl over an elegant, though voluminous, white gown. Gold bands glittered on her wrists, gold rings shone on every finger, and she wore a gold torque upon her neck. Beside her sat Boru, the agent of Ammon.
‘You cannot stay here, Mejana. She will bring Avatar soldiers.’
‘Where would I go?’ replied the middle-aged woman. ‘And, besides, had she wished me to be captured she would have held my men captive. No. I will see her.’