‘That pompous windbag is the first minister of Mashrapur, a brilliant politician and a poet of some repute. I’m sure he would be mortally humiliated to know that a young uneducated peasant from the frontier disagrees with his philosophy.’
‘Then we won’t tell him,’ said Druss. ‘We’ll just leave him here serving up his cow-pats to people who will believe they’re steaks. Now I’m thirsty, poet. Do you know of a decent tavern?’
‘It depends what you’re looking for. The taverns on the docks are rough, and usually filled with thieves and whores. If we walk on for another half-mile we’ll come to a more civilised area. There we can have a quiet drink.’
‘What about those places over there?’ asked Druss, pointing to a row of buildings alongside the wharf.
‘Your judgement is unerring, Druss. That is East Wharf, better known to the residents here as Thieves Row. Every night there are a score of fights – and murders. Almost no one of quality would go there – which makes it perfect for you. You go on. I’ll visit some old friends who might have news of recent slave movements.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Druss.
‘No, you won’t. You’d be out of place. Most of my friends, you see, are pompous windbags. I’ll meet you back at the Tree of Bone by midnight.’ Druss chuckled, which only increased Sieben’s annoyance as the poet swung away and strode through the park.
*
The room was furnished with a large bed with satin sheets, two comfort chairs padded with horsehair and covered with velvet, and a table upon which sat a jug of wine and two silver goblets. There were rugs upon the floor, woven with great skill and soft beneath her bare feet. Rowena sat upon the edge of the bed, her right hand clasping the brooch Druss had fashioned for her. She could see him walking beside Sieben. Sadness overwhelmed her and her hand dropped to her lap. Harib Ka was dead – as she had known he would be – and Druss was now closer to his dread destiny.
She felt powerless and alone in Collan’s house. There were no locks upon the door, but there were guards in the corridor beyond. Yet there was no escape.
On the first night, when Collan had taken her from the camp, he had raped her twice. On the second occasion she had tried to empty her mind, losing herself in dreams of the past. In doing so she had unlocked the doors to her Talent. Rowena had floated free of her abused body and hurtled through darkness and Time. She saw great cities, huge armies, mountains that breached the clouds. Lost, she sought for Druss and could not find him.
Then a voice came to her, a gentle voice, warm and reassuring. ‘Be calm, sister. I will help you.’
She paused in her flight, floating above a night-dark ocean. A man appeared alongside her; he was slim of build and young, perhaps twenty. His eyes were dark, his smile friendly. ‘Who are you?’ she asked him.
‘I am Vintar of the Thirty.’
‘I am lost,’ she said.
‘Give me your hand.’
Reaching out she felt his spirit fingers, then his thoughts washed over hers. On the verge of panic Rowena felt herself swamped by his memories, seeing a temple of grey stone, a dwelling-place of white-clad monks. He withdrew from her as swiftly as he had entered her thoughts. ‘Your ordeal is over,’ he said. ‘He has left you and now sleeps beside you. I shall take you home.’
‘I cannot bear it. He is a vile man.’
‘You will survive, Rowena.’
‘Why should I wish to?’ she asked him. ‘My husband is changing, becoming day by day as vicious as the men who took me. What kind of life will I face?’
‘I will not answer that, though probably I could,’ he told her. ‘You are very young, and you have experienced great pain. But you are alive, and while living can achieve great good. You have the Talent, not only to Soar but also to Heal, to Know. Few are blessed with this gift. Do not concern yourself with Collan; he raped you only because Harib Ka said that he should not and he will not touch you again.’