‘Wait!’ ordered the prince. ‘The ceremony is not yet over.’
But Pagan ignored him and half-carried the weeping Scaler from the temple. Not one Sathuli barred his path as the trio returned to their rooms. There Pagan helped Scaler to a wide satin-covered bed and fetched him water from a stone jug; it was cool and sweet.
‘Have you ever heard such sadness?’ Scaler asked him.
‘No,’ admitted Pagan. ‘It made me value life. How did you do it? By all the gods, it was a performance unparalleled.’
‘It was merely another deception. And it made me sick! What skill is there in deceiving a tormented, blind spirit? Gods, Pagan, he’s been dead for over a hundred years. He and Rek met very rarely after the battle – they were of two different cultures.’
‘But you knew all the words . . .’
‘The Earl’s diaries. No more, no less. I am a student of history. They met when the Sathuli ambushed my ancestor and Rek took on Joachim in single combat. They fought for an age and then Joachim’s sword snapped. But Rek spared him and it was the start of their friendship.’
‘You have chosen a difficult part to play. You are no swordsman.’
‘No, I don’t need to be. The act is enough. I think I will sleep now. Gods, I’m tired . . . and so damned ashamed.’
‘You have no reason to feel shame. But tell me, what are the Cheiam?’
‘The sons of Joachim. It is a cult, I think; I’m not sure. Let me sleep now.’
‘Rest well, Rek, you have earned it.’
‘There is no need to use the name in private.’
‘There is every reason – we must all live the part from now on. I don’t know anything about your ancestor, but I think he would have been proud of you. It took iron nerve to go through that.’
But Scaler missed the compliment, for he had fallen asleep.
Pagan returned to the outer room.
‘How is he?’ asked Belder.
‘He is all right. But a word of advice for you, old man: no more cutting remarks! From now on he is the Earl of Bronze and will be treated as such.’
‘How little you know, black man!’ snapped Belder. ‘He is not playing a role, he is the Earl of Bronze. By right and by blood. He thinks he is playing a part. Well, let him. What you see now is the reality. It was always there – I knew it. That was what made me so bitter. Cutting remarks? I am proud of the boy – so proud I could sing!’
‘Well, don’t,’ said Pagan, grinning. ‘You have the voice of a sick hyena!’
*
Scaler was wakened by a rough hand clamping over his mouth. It was not a pleasant awakening. The moonlight made a silver beam through the open window and the breeze billowed the curtain of lace. But the man leaning over his bed was in silhouette.
‘Do not make a sound,’ warned a voice. ‘You are in great danger!’ He removed his hand and sat down on the bed.
Scaler sat up slowly. ‘Danger?’ he whispered.
‘The prince has ordered your death.’
‘Nice!’
‘I am here to help you.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘This is not jest, Lord Earl. I am Magir, leader of the Cheiam, and if you do not move you will find yourself in the Halls of the Dead once more.’
‘Move where?’
‘Out of the city. Tonight. We have a camp higher in the range where you will be safe.’ A slight scratching noise came from beyond the window, like a rope rubbing on stone. ‘Too late!’ whispered Magir. ‘They are here. Get your sword!’
Scaler scrambled across the bed, dragging his blade from its scabbard. A dark shadow leapt through the window but Magir intercepted it, his curved dagger flashing upwards. A terrible scream rent the silence of the night. As two more assassins clambered into the room, Scaler screamed at the top of his voice and leapt forward, swinging the sword. It hammered into flesh and the man fell without a sound. Scaler tripped over the body just as a dagger flashed over his head but rolled onto his back, thrusting his blade into the man’s belly. With a grunt of pain he staggered back and pitched out of the window.