‘And died,’ put in Varsava.
‘Probably. But that’s not the point. After he killed Cajivak he sat down and called for a drink. A man doesn’t do that if he expects further battles. That left them confused, uncertain – no rules, you see. And when he walked down among them he left the axe behind. He knew he wouldn’t need it – and they knew too. He played them like a harp. But he didn’t do it consciously, it is just the nature of the man.’
‘I can’t be like him,’ said Varsava sadly, remembering the peacemaker and the terrible death he suffered.
‘Few can,’ agreed Eskodas. ‘That’s why he is becoming a legend.’
Laughter echoed from the Hall. ‘Sieben is entertaining them again,’ said Eskodas. ‘Come on, let’s go and listen. We can get drunk.’
‘I don’t want to get drunk. I want to be young again. I want to change the past, wipe a wet rag over the filthy slate.’
‘It’s a fresh day tomorrow,’ said Eskodas softly.
‘What does that mean?’
‘The past is dead, bladesman, the future largely unwritten. I was on a ship once with a rich man when we hit a storm, and the ship went down. The rich man gathered as much gold as he could carry. He drowned. I left behind everything I owned. I survived.’
‘You think my guilt weighs more than his gold?’
‘I think you should leave it behind,’ said Eskodas, rising. ‘Now, come and see Druss – and let’s get drunk.’
‘No,’ said Varsava sadly. ‘I don’t want to see him.’ He stood and placed his wide leather hat upon his head. ‘Give him my best wishes, and tell him . . . tell him . . .’ His voice faded away.
Tell him what?’
Varsava shook his head, and smiled ruefully. ‘Tell him goodbye,’ he said.
*
Michanek followed the young officer to the base of the wall, then both men knelt with their ears to the stone. At first Michanek could hear nothing, but then came the sound of scraping, like giant rats beneath the earth, and he swore softly.
‘You have done well, Cicarin. They are digging beneath the walls. The question is, from where? Follow me.’ The young officer followed the powerfully built champion as Michanek scaled the rampart steps and leaned out over the parapet. Ahead was the main camp of the Ventrian army, their tents pitched on the plain before the city. To the left was a line of low hills with the river beyond them. To the right was a higher section of hills, heavily wooded. ‘My guess,’ said Michanek, ‘would be that they began their work on the far side of that hill, about half-way up. They would have taken a bearing and know that if they hold to a level course they would come under the walls by around two feet.’
‘How serious is it, sir?’ asked Cicarin nervously.
Michanek smiled at the young man. ‘Serious enough. Have you ever been down a mine?’
‘No, sir.’
Michanek chuckled. Of course he hadn’t. The boy was the youngest son of a Naashanite Satrap who until this siege had been surrounded by servants, barbers, valets and huntsmen. His clothes would have been laid out each morning, his breakfast brought to him on a silver tray as he lay in bed with satin sheets.
‘There are many aspects to soldiering,’ he said. ‘They are mining beneath our walls, removing the foundations. As they dig, they are shoring up the walls and ceiling with very dry timber. They will dig along the line of the wall, then burrow on to the hills by the river, emerging somewhere around . . . there.’ He pointed to the tallest of the low hills.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Cicarin. ‘If they are shoring up the tunnel, what harm can it do?’
‘That’s an easy question to answer. Once they have two openings there will be a through draught of air; then they will soak the timbers with oil and, when the wind is right, set fire to the tunnel. The wind will drive the flames through, the ceiling will collapse and, if they have done their job well, the walls will come crashing down.’