‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No. It’s not for sharing.’
As the door closed behind her Vintar spoke, his voice gentle and sorrowful. ‘He was a fine man after his fashion. I contacted him before the end; he was at peace and in the past.’
‘In the past?’ said Rek. ‘What does that mean?’
‘His mind had vanished into happier memories. He died well. I think the Source will have him – I shall pray to that effect. But what of Druss?’
‘I tried to reach the general, Hogun,’ said Arbedark, ‘but the danger was great. I almost lost my bearings. The distance . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Serbitar. ‘Did you manage to ascertain how the assassination is to be attempted?’
‘No. I could not enter the man’s mind, but before him was a bottle of Lentrian Red that he was re-sealing. It could be poison, or an opiate of some kind.’
‘There must be something you can do,’ said Rek, ‘with all your power.’
‘All power – but one – has limits,’ said Vintar. ‘We can only pray. Druss has been a warrior for many years – a survivor. It means he is not only skilful but lucky. Menahem, you must journey to the Dros and watch for us. Perhaps the attempt will be delayed until we are closer.’
‘You mentioned a Drenai officer,’ said Rek to Arbedark. ‘Who? Why?’
‘I know not. As I completed the journey, he was leaving the house of Musar. He acted furtively and this aroused my suspicions. Musar was in the loft and upon the table beside him lay a note written in the Nadir tongue. It said, “Kill Deathwalker.” That is the name by which Druss is known to the tribes.’
‘You were lucky to see the officer,’ said Rek. ‘In a fortress city of that size, the chances of seeing a single act of treachery must be amazing.’
‘Yes,’ said Arbedark. Rek saw the look that passed between the blond priest and the albino.
‘Is there more to it than luck?’ he asked.
‘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.