Druss walked away from them, the old man alongside him. ‘My name is Carmol,’ said the servant, with a broad grin. ‘And it is a pleasure to meet you again!’
Together they walked across the riot-torn city. Here and there bodies could be seen lying by the wayside, and the smell of burning buildings wafted to them on the wind.
The hospice was sited in the centre of the poorest quarter, its white walls out of place among the squalid buildings that surrounded it. The riots had begun near here, but moved on days since. An elderly priest showed them to Klay’s room, which was small and clean with a single cot bed placed beneath the window. Klay was asleep when they entered and the priest brought two chairs for the visitors. The fighter awoke as Druss sat beside the bed.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked the Drenai.
‘I’ve known better days,’ answered Klay, forcing a smile. His face was grey beneath his tan, his eyes sunken and blue-ringed.
Druss took hold of the fighter’s hand. ‘A Nadir shaman told me of a place to the east where there are magical jewels to heal any wound. I leave tomorrow. If they exist, I shall find them and bring them to you. You understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Klay, despair in his voice. ‘Magical jewels to heal me!’
‘Do not give up hope,’ said Druss.
‘Hope is not on offer here, my friend. This is a hospice and we come here to die. Throughout this building there are people waiting for death, some with cancers, others with lung rot, still more with wasting diseases for which there are no names. There are wives, husbands, children. If such jewels exist, there are other more deserving cases than mine. But I thank you for your words.’
‘They are not just words, Klay. I am leaving tomorrow. Promise me you will fight for life until my return.’
‘I always fight, Druss. That’s my talent. The east, you say? That is Nadir heartland, filled with robbers and thieves, and deadly killers. You wouldn’t want to meet them.’
Druss chuckled. ‘Trust me, laddie. They wouldn’t want to meet me!’
Garen-Tsen stared down at the body of the embalmer – his face twisted in death, frozen in mid-scream, eyes wide and staring. Blood had ceased to flow from the many wounds, and the broken fingers twitched no longer.
‘He was a tough one,’ said the torturer.
Garen-Tsen ignored the man. The information gleaned from the embalmer had been far from complete; he had held something back to the end. Garen-Tsen stared at the dead face. You knew exactly where they were, he thought. Through his years of study Chorin-Tsu had finally pieced together the route taken by the renegade shaman who had originally stolen the Eyes of Alchazzar. The man had ultimately been found hiding in the Mountains of the Moon, and he was slain there. Of the Eyes there was no sign. He could have hidden them anywhere, but a number of incidents suggested they were concealed in – or near – the tomb of Oshikai Demon-bane. Miraculous healings were said to have taken place there: several blind men regained their sight; a cripple walked. In themselves these miracles meant nothing. Tombs of heroes or prophets always attracted such claims, and being Chiatze Garen-Tsen well understood the nature of hysterical paralysis or blindness. Even so, it was the only indication as to the whereabouts of the jewels. The problem remained, however, that the tomb had been surreptitiously searched on at least three occasions. No hidden jewels had been found.
‘Dispose of it,’ Garen-Tsen ordered the torturer and the man nodded. The University paid five gold coins for every fresh corpse – though this one was in such a wretched state he would probably receive only three.
The Chiatze minister lifted the hem of his long velvet robe and walked from the chamber. Am I clutching at leaves in the wind, he wondered? Can I send troops to Shul-sen’s Valley with any surety of success?
Back in his own rooms, he emptied his mind of the problem and pored over the reports of the day. A secret meeting at the home of the Senator Borvan, an overheard criticism of the God-King in a tavern on Eel Street, a scuffle at the home of the fighter Klay. The name Druss caught his eye, and he remembered the awesome Drenai fighter. He read on, skimming through the reports and making notes. Druss’s name figured once more; he had visited Klay in the hospice that morning. Garen-Tsen blinked as he read the small script. ‘The subject made reference to healing jewels, which he would fetch for the fighter . . .’ Picking up a small silver bell, Garen-Tsen rang it twice. A servant entered and bowed.
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