‘I do not understand.’
‘Kias claimed that life was like that clay jug. Unless we examined it and understood it, we could not enjoy it.’
‘Sometimes understanding robs you of joy,’ she whispered.
He said nothing, transferring his gaze to the night sky and the distant stars. Renya fell into a dreamless sleep, her head tipping forward, dislodging the woollen burnoose that covered her close-cropped hair. Tenaka reached up to replace it, then stopped as his hand touched her head. The hair was not close-cropped – it had grown as long as it would grow. For it was not hair but dark fur, soft as sable. Gently he pulled the burnoose into place and closed his eyes.
The girl was a Joining, half-human, half-animal.
No wonder she did not care for life.
Were there diamonds in the clay for such as she? He wondered.
3
At the Dragon barracks a man pushed his way past the screen of bushes before the parade ground. He was a big man, broad shoulders tapering to lean hips and long legs, was dressed in black and carried an iron-tipped ebony quarterstaff. Hooded, his face was covered by a shaped mask in black leather. He moved easily – the rolling, fluid gait of the athlete – yet he was wary, his bright blue eyes flickering to every bush and shadow-haunted tree.
When he saw the bodies he circled them slowly, reading the brief battle in the tracks.
One man against four.
The first three had died almost instantly and that spoke of speed. The fourth had run past the lone warrior. The tall man followed the track and nodded.
So. Here was a mystery. The lone warrior was not alone – he had a companion who took no part in the fray. The footprints were small, yet the stride long. A woman?
Yes, a woman. A tall woman.
He glanced back at the bodies.
‘That was well done,’ he said aloud, the voice muffled by the mask. ‘Damn well done.’ One against four. Not many men could survive against such odds, yet this man had not only survived but won the day with skill to spare.
Ringar? He was a lightning killer with astonishing reflexes. Yet he barely chanced a neck cut, more often choosing the lower torso: the disembowelling cut.
Argonin? No, he was dead. Strange how a man could forget such a thing.
Who then? An unknown? No. In a world where skill with arms was of paramount importance, there were few unknowns of such bewildering talent.
He studied the tracks one more, picturing the battle, seeing at last the blurred print at the centre. The warrior had leapt and spun in the air like a dance before hammering home the death blow.
Tenaka Khan!
Realisation struck the big man like a blow to the heart. His eyes glittered strangely and his breathing grew ragged.
Of all the men in the world who he hated, Tenaka had pride of place.
Or was that still true? He relaxed and remembered, his thoughts tracing his memories like salt over a festering wound.
‘I should have killed you then,’ he said. ‘None of this would have happened to me.’
He pictured Tenaka dying, his blood seeping into the snow. It gave him no joy, but still he hungered for the deed.
‘I will make you pay,’ he said.
And set off to the south.
*
Tenaka and Renya made good progress on the second day – seeing no one, nor any track made by man. The wind had died down and the clean air held the promise of spring. Tenaka was silent through most of the day and Renya did not press him.
Towards dusk as they clambered down a steep incline, she lost her footing and pitched forward, tumbling and rolling to the foot of the hill and striking her head on a gnarled tree-root. Tenaka ran to her side, pulling free her burnoose and examining the seeping gash on her temple. Her eyes flared open.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she screamed, clawing at his hands.
He moved back, handing her the cotton burnoose.
‘I don’t like to be touched,’ she said apologetically.
‘Then I shall not touch you,’ he answered. ‘But you should bandage that wound.’