‘Perhaps,’ said Serbitar. ‘We will talk of it soon. For now we are helpless. Menahem will watch the situation and keep us informed. If they delay the attempt for two more days we may be in a position to help.’
Rek looked at Menahem, sitting upright at the table, eyes closed and breathing shallow.
‘Has he gone?’ he asked.
Serbitar nodded.
*
Druss managed to look interested as the speeches wore on. Three times since the banquet ended the old warrior had heard how grateful were the townsfolk, burghers, merchants and lawyers that he had come among them. How it showed up the fainthearts ever ready to write off the might of the Drenai empire. How, when the battle was won – speedily – Dros Delnoch would attract sightseers from all over the continent. How new verses would be added to Serbar’s saga of The Legend. The words droned on, the praise growing more fulsome as the wine flowed.
Some two hundred of Delnoch’s richest and most influential families were present at the Great Hall, seated around the massive round table normally reserved for state occasions. The banquet was the brainchild of Bricklyn, the Master Burgher, a short self-obsessed businessman who had bent Druss’s ear throughout the meal and was now taking the liberty of bending it again in the longest speech so far.
Druss kept his smile firmly fixed, nodding here and there where he felt it appropriate. He had attended many such functions in his life, though they normally followed rather than preceded a battle.
As had been expected, Druss had opened the speeches with a short talk on his life, concluding it with a stirring promise that the Dros would hold if only the soldiers would show the same courage as those families sitting round the table. As had also been expected, he received a tumultuous ovation.
As was his wont on these occasions Druss drank sparingly, merely sipping the fine Lentrian Red placed before him by the stout innkeeper Musar, the banquet’s master of ceremonies.
With a start Druss realised that Bricklyn had finished his speech, and he applauded vigorously. The short grey-haired man sat down at his left, beaming and bowing as the applause continued.
‘A fine speech,’ said Druss. ‘Very fine.’
‘Thank you. Yours, I think, was better,’ said Bricklyn, pouring himself a glass of Vagrian White from a stone jug.
‘Nonsense. You are a born speaker.’
‘It’s strange you should say that. I remember when I gave a speech in Drenan for the wedding of Count Maritin . . . you know the count, of course? . . . Anyway, he said . . .’ And so it went on, with Druss smiling and nodding, Bricklyn finding more and more stories to outline his qualities.
Towards midnight as prearranged, Delnar’s elderly servant, Arshin, approached Druss and announced – loudly enough for Bricklyn to overhear – that Druss was needed on Wall Three to supervise a new detachment of archers and their placement. It was not before time. Throughout the evening Druss had drunk no more than a single goblet, yet his head swam and his legs shook as he pushed himself upright. He made his apologies to the stout burgher, bowed to the assembly and marched from the room. In the corridor outside he stopped and leaned against a pillar.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Arshin.
‘The wine was bad,’ muttered Druss. ‘It’s hit my stomach worse than a Ventrian breakfast.’
‘You’d better get to bed, sir. I will take a message to Dun Mendar to attend you in your room.’
‘Mendar? Why the hell should he attend me?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t mention it in the Hall as you had told me what to say when I approached you, but Dun Mendar asked if you could spare him a moment. He has a serious problem, he said.’
Druss rubbed his eyes and took several deep breaths. His belly felt weak, disconnected and fragile. He toyed with the idea of sending Arshin to explain to the young Karnak officer, but then realised word would get round that Druss was sick. Or worse, that he couldn’t hold his wine.
‘Maybe the air will do me good. Where is he?’