‘How is this group financed?’ asked Caprishan. ‘Do we know?’
‘Not yet,’ said Rael, ‘but it is safe to assume they are receiving aid from the Erek-jhip-zhonad.’
‘You want me to kill their king?’ asked Viruk.
‘Not yet, cousin. We have enough enemies for now. At this stage we must be careful. Attacks upon Avatars must not succeed. We rule a hostile population. Once they begin to perceive us not as lords but as targets …’ He did not finish the sentence.
‘These people must be found – and quickly,’ said Niclin.
‘They will be,’ Rael promised. ‘We are currently hunting a tribesman we believe is a courier. He is a very old white-haired man, and he travels with a young golden-haired child. Our information is that he brings instructions to the group, as well as gold to finance them. He poses as a merchant and our agents are scouring the city for him. When we find him we will find the leaders.’
‘What kind of merchant?’ asked Viruk, his good humour evaporating. He knew the answer before Rael spoke.
‘He peddles wine, I understand,’ said the Questor General.
First instincts, thought Viruk, are always the best. I should have cut the old man’s throat. He sighed. The day was blighted now and nothing would rescue it. He leaned back in his chair, trying to look interested as the talk turned to tax revenue and collection. He glanced across at Talaban. Was he enjoying the meeting, he wondered? Or was he as bored as Viruk himself?
There was no way to tell. Talaban’s dark features were impassive, his concentration fixed on the speaker. Viruk’s gaze drifted to Caprishan, who was explaining the problems of gathering tribal duties. His many chins wobbled as he spoke, and sweat was trickling down his face. Viruk watched a rivulet reach the chins then flow along one of the creases. He stifled a yawn.
By the time the meeting ended he would cheerfully have strangled everyone present. Rael offered them all refreshments, but Viruk declined and left the palace, setting off on foot for his home. It was more than a mile, but the night was pleasantly fresh, the air cool on his face. Unlike the others, he hoped the new Avatars would prove hostile. Perhaps then he would find enemies worthy of his talents.
He had enjoyed killing the fat king, watching the zhi-bolt explode into his back, spraying blood and bone across the pretty flowers. Ah yes, he thought, the flowers. What did they say the name was … ? Star petals? Star blooms? No. Sky stars. That was it. Delightful plants. He could still remember the scent, delicate and light. Tomorrow he would tell Kale about them and have them planted close to his bedroom window.
Viruk strolled on along the wide avenue then cut to the right along the narrow Street of Sawyers. No one was working at this hour, but he could still make out the musty smell of the fresh cut timbers. The street was dark and Viruk’s foot squelched down on a pile of horse dung. A foul stench filled the air. Viruk was about to scrape the sole of his boot when he heard a whisper of movement from behind. He spun on his heel. Moonlight glinted on a knife blade. Blocking the blow with his forearm he slammed his fist into his attacker’s jaw. The knifeman stumbled and fell. Viruk leapt to his right as a second attacker materialized from a nearby alley. This one held a sword. Viruk backed away. ‘Have you mistaken me for someone else?’ he asked, his voice, as always, amiable.
‘We know who you are,’ said the swordsman, advancing slowly. He was dressed in dark clothing and a scarf was drawn about the lower half of his face. The knifeman was on his feet now, moving crab-like to Viruk’s right. ‘You are Viruk the Killer,’ continued the swordsman. ‘Viruk the Insane.’
‘Insane? That is very rude,’ Viruk told him. ‘I think I shall kill you with your own sword.’
The knifeman hurled himself forward. Viruk stepped in to meet him, swaying aside from a clumsy lunge and hammering his elbow into the man’s face. With a strangled cry the man staggered back. The swordsman sent a vicious cut towards Viruk’s head. The Avatar ducked under it, then launched himself in a flying dive, his shoulder thudding into the man’s belly and pitching him from his feet. They hit the ground hard. Viruk reared up and struck the swordsman three times in the face, then grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the road twice. The swordsman groaned. Viruk pushed himself to his feet, and wrenched the sword from the man’s hand. ‘Pitiful,’ said Viruk. Truly pitiful.’
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