the sunshine. He was carrying a black crossbow with a slim stock and wings of iron, and a quiver of stiffened leather containing twenty short black quarrels.
‘The ants are milking the greenfly,’ Brune told him. ‘I didn’t know they did that.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Tarantio laid bow and quiver on the stone table beside the bench on which Brune was sitting.
‘The rose-bush. Look at the ants.’
Tarantio walked the length of the garden, some sixty paces, and knelt down by the bush for a few moments. Then he returned to the seated Brune. ‘I see they are swarming near the greenfly, but what makes you believe they are milking them?’ he asked.
‘You can see it. Look, there’s one feeding now; he’s filling his food sac.’
‘Are you mocking me, Brune? I can hardly see the bud from here.’
‘It’s my new eye,’ said Brune proudly. ‘I can see all sorts of things with it, if I try hard. I was watching the ants earlier. They swap food. Did you know that? They rear up in front of each other, then one vomits . . .’
‘I am sure it is fascinating,’ said the swordsman swiftly. ‘However, we have work to do. I have purchased this crossbow and I’d like to see how your new eye affects your aim.’
Tarantio showed Brune how to cock the weapon, then bade him shoot at the trunk of a thick oak some twenty paces away.
‘Which part of the trunk?’ asked Brune. Tarantio laughed and moved to the tree, scanning the bark. There was a small knot no more than an inch in diameter. Tarantio touched it with his index finger.
‘Just here,’ he said. As he spoke, Brune hefted the
weapon. ‘Wait!’ cried Tarantio. The black bolt slammed into the knot, barely inches from Tarantio’s outstretched hand. Furious, he stormed back to where Brune stood. ‘You idiot! You could have killed me.’
‘I hit the knot,’ said Brune gleefully.
‘But the bolt might have ricocheted. It happens, Brune.’
‘I’m sorry. It was just so easy. Don’t be angry.’
Tarantio took a deep breath, then sighed. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘we know the gold was well spent. The magicker did a fine job. Perhaps a little too fine.’ Leaning in close to Brune he stared into the young man’s eyes.
‘What are you looking at?’ asked Brune nervously.
‘Your left eye. I could have sworn it was blue.’
‘It is blue,’ said Brune.
‘Not any more. It is a kind of golden brown. Ah well, maybe it is just part of the magic from the golden orb.’
‘He wasn’t supposed to change the colour,’ objected Brune, worried now. ‘He wasn’t, was he?’
‘I don’t suppose that it matters,’ replied Tarantio, with a smile. ‘Not if you can see ants feeding. Anyway, it is a good colour. And it better matches the gold of your right eye.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yes.’
They heard the sound of horses on the road outside. Tarantio’s face hardened as Vint came riding to the gate. The Corduin swordsman gave a broad smile and waved as he dismounted. He opened the gate wide, and a second rider came through. Tarantio watched as Karis dismounted, tethering her grey to the gatepost.
‘Good to see you again, Chio,’ she said.
‘And you, Karis. Come to see him die?’ he asked.
‘Not today. What brings you to Corduin?’
‘I grew tired of war,’ he told her. ‘Added to which I was
with the mercenaries your lancers destroyed. I barely got away. Did life prove too dull with Sirano?’
‘Something like that,’ she agreed. Karis glanced at Brune. ‘What is the matter with his eye?’
‘Nothing. He sees better than any man alive. What is it you want?’
Karis smiled. ‘A little hospitality would be pleasant. A drink perhaps? Then we can talk.’
Tarantio sent Brune inside to fetch wine. Vint sat perched on the edge of the stone table, while Karis sat down opposite Tarantio. She told him of the return of the Daroth, and the murder of the villagers and the soldiers from the northern garrison. Tarantio listened, astonished. Brune returned with a pitcher of wine and four clay cups, but no-one touched the drink.