‘The islands. My father was a blacksmith and an inventor.’
‘What brought you to the mainland?’
Ozhobar shrugged. ‘I thought I’d travel and see the world. Thought there’d be more scope for my talents.’
‘Well, you were right about that.’
‘I didn’t mean with weapons,’ said Ozhobar sadly. ‘Prentuis had a sewerage system – not a very good one, mind, but they survived the plague better than any other city. Less filth on the streets. Less disease.’
‘The city doesn’t exist any more,’ said Vint.
‘That’s not the point I am trying to make. Life could be so much better for people if we weren’t always fighting, using all our resources for weapons and armies. I suppose, however, that life would be exceedingly dull for you if peace ever came?’
‘No, I would paint and write,’ said Vint, draining the last of his cider.
‘You are a painter?’
‘Ah, I have surprised you,’ said Vint. ‘Yes, I paint. Landscapes mostly, but I have tackled portraits. I would offer to paint you, Oz, but I fear I wouldn’t have a canvas large enough.’
Ozhobar laughed. ‘Vint the painter and Ozhobar the sewer designer. What a pretty pair!’
‘Indeed we are,’ agreed Vint. ‘And now, I fear, it is time for the return of the Swordsman and the Weapon Maker! Shall we tour the catacombs?’
Servants were rushing about the house packing valuables into chests and carrying them down to the two wagons drawn up outside. Miriac walked past them into the main room to find Pooris pushing papers into a leather shoulder-bag.
‘What is happening?’ asked Miriac.
‘My dear, it is time to leave. The city is about to fall. I have had most of your clothes packed and loaded in the wagon. We set off for Hlobane within the hour.’
‘I thought you had decided to stay,’ she said.
‘That was then,’ he told her. ‘Now events have overtaken my plans. The Daroth are tunnelling beneath the city as we speak.’
‘And the Duke has allowed you this leave of absence?’
‘I am not a bondsman,’ he said curtly. ‘I can go where I will. Now please look to your personal possessions and make yourself ready.’
Miriac left the little man and moved back into the hall. Stopping a servant, she told him to unload her chests and return them to the master bedroom. Pooris heard her and rushed out. ‘Do not be stupid,’ he said. The Daroth will have no need of courtesans, my dear – save to cook you over a charcoal pit.’
Leaning forward, she kissed the crown of his bald head. ‘You go, Pooris,’ she said. ‘I will stay and look after your house.’
‘You don’t understand …’
‘I understand well enough. The Daroth are tunnelling
beneath us and you believe the city is about to fall. You wish to save yourself – that is entirely natural. Do as you think fit, Pooris. But I will remain.’
‘But … I need you.’
‘No. You want me. There is a difference.’ He stood very still, and she could see the confusion on his face. Even more, she could understand the warring emotions within him. Pooris was not a coward but, like all politicians, he was a pragmatist. If the Daroth had won — which he believed they had – then it was only sensible to retreat before them. Now Miriac had presented him with a fresh dilemma. He loved her, and, as a man, wanted to protect her. He could not do this from Hlobane or Loretheli. Realistically, however, he could not do it here in Corduin either; the tiny councillor would be no match for a Daroth. ‘I want you to be safe,’ she told him. ‘You are very dear to me. I think you have made the right decision.’ She saw him relax then, as she had known he would.
Without further conversation, she went upstairs to her rooms and began to unpack the chests. She had promised Tarantio to return at dusk, and had been wondering how to break the news to Pooris. Now there was no need.
The councillor came to her an hour later, and stood in the doorway of her bedroom. ‘Please come with me,’ he said. ‘I beg you.’