He limped towards his front door. A servant saw him coming and, bowing low, stepped out to greet him. Ro paused at the steps and stared back over the city. From the high ground where his imposing home was situated Ro could look down on the harbour and the estuary beyond. Some buildings were still burning, and a red glow hung over the docks. He sighed, and felt the pain of his wounds.
‘May the Source be praised that you are alive, lord,’ said Sempes, bowing again. Ro looked closely at the old man and wondered if he meant it. It was not a thought that would have occurred to him before today.
‘How long have you been with me, old one?’ he asked.
‘Thirty-three years, lord.’
‘Are you married?’
‘I was, lord. My wife died last year.’
‘I am sorry for your loss.’ The old man looked at him quizzically.
‘Are you ill, lord?’
‘I think that I have been. Would you be so kind as to prepare me a bath?’
‘I shall arrange it immediately, lord. The water is already being heated.’
Ro stepped into the hallway and gazed around at the lantern-lit walls. They were covered with beautiful paintings, landscapes of Parapolis and the surrounding countryside. ‘Let me remove your boots, lord,’ said Sempes, kneeling beside a gold-embossed chair. Ro sat down and extended his right leg. Sempes pulled the boot clear. Ro winced as the old man tugged at his left boot. ‘Your leg is hurt, lord. I am sorry.’
‘It will heal. Do not concern yourself.’
Sempes moved away and returned with soft velvet slippers, which he eased into place. Ro felt indescribably weary and was about to tell the old man to forget the bath when Sempes spoke again.
‘Your guest is in the garden room, lord. I lit a fire for her.’
‘My guest?’
‘The raven-haired lady you brought home earlier. She has been here since late last night. I hope I did right in allowing her to stay.’
‘Yes, you did.’ Ro pushed himself to his feet and made his way across the hall, through the narrow library and on into the garden room. Pausing in the doorway to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light from the dying fire, he scanned the room. There were four couches and two deep, hide-covered chairs. Sofarita was asleep in the chair by the fire.
As he entered, the four unlit lanterns in the room flickered into bright life, sharp shadows forming in the three arches that led to his garden. Sofarita sat up.
‘Do they still seek to kill me?’ she asked him.
‘They have other problems on their minds,’ he told her.
‘Come to me,’ she commanded him. And, to his surprise, he obeyed her. Sofarita rose and took his injured hand in her own. All pain vanished. Lifting his hand he curled his fingers into a fist. The bones were completely healed. ‘You were very brave, Questor Ro,’ she said, softly. ‘When you loosed the third bolt you thought the weapon would explode in your face. You thought you were going to die.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And yet you fought on. That was noble.’
The little man reddened. ‘Why did you come here?’
‘You will still need my help, Avatar. Tell me, how is the soldier whose legs I broke?’
‘Resting. It will take time for such breaks to heal.’
‘I hurt him badly,’ she said. ‘I allowed my anger to overwhelm me. It will not happen again. Tomorrow I will heal him also.’
Ro sat down in a chair opposite hers. ‘How soon will they return, do you think?’ he asked her.
Sofarita shrugged. ‘I do not believe they will attack the cities by sea again. But they have landed an army to the south. Three thousand men, and beasts. Another army is sailing down the Luan. There will be great slaughter and destruction.’
‘What can we do?’
‘What else can you do but follow your natures?’ she told him. ‘You are what you are.’
‘Do you hate the Avatar so much?’ he asked, hearing the contempt in her voice.
She gave a wistful smile. ‘You misunderstand me, Questor Ro. I was not talking of the Avatar. I was speaking of Man. So much is clear to me now and every day it grows clearer still. We do what we are born to do. My Aunt Lalia has a cat. It is well fed, and wants for nothing. Yet it will – with its belly full – creep into the meadow and kill a bird. It does not eat the bird. Why then does it kill? One might as well ask why a flower grows or the rain falls. It kills because it is designed to kill. That is its purpose. It has fangs and claws and great speed. It is a hunter. If then it does not hunt what purpose does it serve?’ Sofarita fell silent for a moment. Then she spoke again. ‘A few weeks ago I was a widow living in a small village. I knew my role, and I played it well. I was demure in the company of men, and I worked in the fields with the other women. When my period of mourning was done I would have accepted my father’s choice of a new husband and I would have borne him children. I am no longer that village girl. I see the world with larger eyes. And I can fly on the winds of time. Today I journeyed far, I saw Man. I watched him as he crept from the deep jungles, his body covered in thick fur. I saw his intelligence develop and his skills increase. Those skills were always allied to death. Do you know the greatest discovery made by man six hundred thousand years ago?’ Ro shook his head. She laughed, but there was little humour in the sound. ‘He learned that a javelin’s weight must be heaviest a third of the way from the point. It ensures good flight and maximum killing. He had a language based on grunts and gestures, but he learned to make a javelin. I have seen many things, Questor Ro. Events to break the strongest heart. Man is like the cat. No matter what wealth he possesses, no matter how contented his life, no matter how advanced his learning, he will yearn to fight, to defeat and kill a perceived enemy.’