‘What a hero,’ he told his reflection, a cynical smile on his lips. ‘What a gem of a hero.’ He drew the sword and parried and thrust at the air, one eye on his reflection. The wrist was still supple, the grasp sure. Whatever else you are not, he told himself, you are a swordsman. From the sill by the window he took the silver circlet talisman – his good luck charm since he stole it from a brothel in Lentria – and placed it over his forehead, sweeping his dark hair back over his ears.
‘You may not actually be magnificent,’ he told his reflection, ‘but by all the gods in Missael you look it!’
The eyes smiled back at him. ‘Don’t you mock me, Regnak Wanderer,’ he said. Throwing his cloak over his arm, he strolled downstairs to the long room, casting an eye over the early crowd. Horeb hailed him from the bar.
‘Now that’s more like it, Rek my lad,’ he said, leaning back in mock admiration. ‘You could have stepped straight from one of Serbar’s poems. Drink?’
‘No. I think I will leave it a while yet – like ten years. Last night’s brew is still fermenting in my gullet. Have you packed me some of your vile food for the journey?’
‘Maggoty biscuits, mildewed cheese and a two-year-old back of bacon that will come when you call it,’ answered Horeb. ‘And a flask of the worst. . .’
Conversation ceased as the seer entered the inn, his faded blue habit flapping against bony legs, his quarterstaff tapping on the wooden boards. Rek swallowed his disgust at the man’s appearance and avoided glancing at the ruined sockets where once the man’s eyes had been.
The old man pushed out a hand of which the third finger was missing. ‘Silver for your future,’ he said, his voice like a dry wind whispering through winter branches.
‘Why do they do it?’ whispered Horeb.
‘Their eyes, you mean?’ countered Rek.
‘Yes. How can a man put out his own eyes?’
‘Damned if I know. They say it aids their visions.’
‘Sounds about as sensible as cutting off your staff in order to aid your sex life.’
‘It takes all sorts, Horeb, old friend.’
Drawn by the sound of their voices the old man hobbled nearer, hand outstretched. ‘Silver for your future,’ he intoned. Rek turned away.
‘Go on, Rek,’ urged Horeb. ‘See if the journey bodes well. Where’s the harm?’
‘You pay. I will listen,’ said Rek.
Horeb thrust a hand deep into the pocket of his leather apron and dropped a small silver coin into the old man’s palm. ‘For my friend here,’ he said. ‘I know my future.’
The old man squatted on the wooden floor and reached into a tattered pouch, producing a fistful of sand which he sprinkled about him. Then he produced six knuckle-bones, bearing crafted runes.
‘They’re human bones, aren’t they?’ whispered Horeb.
‘So they say,’ answered Rek. The old man began to chant in the Elder tongue, his quavering voice echoing in the silence. He threw the bones to the sandy floor, then ran his hands over the runes.
‘I have the truth,’ he said at last.
‘Never mind the truth, old man. Give me a tale full of golden lies and glorious maidens.’
‘I have the truth,’ said the seer, as if he had not heard.
‘The hell with it!’ said Rek. ‘Tell me the truth, old man.’
‘Do you desire to hear it, Man?’
‘Never mind the damned ritual, just speak and begone!’
‘Steady, Rek, steady! It’s his way,’ said Horeb.
‘Maybe. But he’s going a long way towards spoiling my day. They never give good news anyway. The old bastard’s probably going to tell me I shall catch the plague.’
‘He wishes the truth,’ said Horeb, following the ritual, ‘and will use it wisely and well.’
‘Indeed he does not and will not,’ said the seer. ‘But destiny must be heard. You do not wish to hear words of your death, Regnak the Wanderer, son of Argas, and so I will withhold them. You are a man of uncertain character and only a sporadic courage. You are a thief and a dreamer and your destiny will both haunt and hunt you. You will run to avoid it, yet your steps will carry you towards it. But then this you know, Longshanks, for you dreamt it yester-eve.’