Karis thanked the man and offered payment. He shook his head. ‘I am in the Duke’s employ,’ he said. ‘He pays me well.’
After he had gone, Karis sat down once more with her notes. But she could not concentrate. Karis had never been a sentimental woman, but she was touched by the arrival of Necklen. The little man, maimed and hurting, had made a journey of almost 600 miles with no other purpose than to reach Karis. He would have been safe in the port city of Loretheli, screened as it was by high mountains. Instead he had come to her. Necklen had never been one of her lovers, but she had always considered him a friend she could trust – the kind of man she wished her father had been. Karis put aside her notes and walked to the window. The moon was high in the cloudless night sky, and the snow in the Ducal gardens shone with an eldritch light. The city beyond was silent and serene.
The door opened and a cool draught touched her back. Karis turned to see Vint striding across the room. ‘I hear you have a man in your bed, my dove,’ he said. His voice was light, but the smoke-grey eyes showed no humour.
‘An old friend,’ she told him. ‘He was at the fall of Prentuis.’
Vint unhooked his black sable cloak and draped it over a chair. ‘Was it as bad as we feared?’ he asked.
‘Every bit as bad. The Daroth breached the walls within a single day, and butchered the inhabitants.’
Rubbing his hand over his trident beard, he turned away and poured himself a goblet of wine. ‘I have seen those walls. Corduin’s are no stronger, Karis.’
‘There is less level ground here,’ she said. ‘But I will worry about catapults and siege-engines when the snow begins to thaw. Until then there are enough problems to consider. Have you rearranged your duel with Tarantio?’
He shook his head. ‘I took your advice and went to the tavern. The story was as Tarantio told it. I have offered him my apology, which he accepted. Fairly gracefully, I might add.’
‘I am glad. I need you both alive.’
Vint grinned. ‘It touches my heart that you care so greatly for me.’
‘Do not be too overcome,’ she warned him. ‘If you are to die, then I would prefer it to be in a useful manner.’
He stepped in close and made to stroke her hair. ‘Not tonight, Vint,’ she told him. ‘Tonight I must make plans.’
He spread his hands. ‘As you wish. Is there any way in which I can help?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Vint gathered up his cloak, then strolled through to the back bedroom. He returned within moments, looking embarrassed. ‘I see what you mean by old friend,’ he said.
‘That he is. Good night, Vint.’
After he had gone she returned to the bedside, where Necklen was sleeping deeply. Tenderly she stroked his hair. ‘I am glad you are here,’ she whispered.
Ozhobar was a huge man with sandy hair and a chin beard that straggled like an old brush. He gazed at the sketch Karis offered him, then leaned forward, reaching into a pottery jar and drawing out a thick oatcake biscuit which he devoured swiftly.
‘Can you make such a catapult?’ Karis asked him.
‘All things are possible,’ he said.
‘I did not ask what was possible. Can you do it?’
‘There is no indication here as to what the arm is constructed from, nor the weight of the stones. You say the range is around two hundred paces?’
‘That is what Necklen tells me, and he is reliable. And it does not throw stones, Master Weapon Maker. It hurls balls of lead.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Ozhobar. ‘That is how they maintain accuracy. The weight of each ball is identical.’
‘Can you make it?’ she repeated, her irritation growing as Ozhobar ate two more oatcakes, brushing the crumbs from his beard.
‘I think we can do a little better than that. I take it the purpose will be to destroy the Daroth catapults?’
‘That is my plan.’
‘We do not have the means to make lead balls of the size your man describes. I would suggest a small refinement. Pottery.’