sheer joy and pride of it. The horse bore Bourne and a set of soft saddlebags,
weighty and jingling.
Near the scrubby acacia specified, he drew rein and glanced about at a drear
pile and scatter of building stones and their broken or crumbled pieces. His
long cloak he doffed before he dismounted. Sliding off his horse, he stood clear
while he unbuckled his big weapons belt. The belt, with sheathed sword and
dagger, he hung on his saddle-horn. He removed the laden bags. Made them jingle.
Laid them on the ground. Stepping clear of horse and ransom, he held his arms
well out from his body while he turned, slowly.
He had shown the ransom and shown himself unarmed. Now a pebble flew from
somewhere to whack a big chunk of granite and go skittering. At that signal.
Bourne squatted and, on clear ground in the moonlight, emptied both saddlebags
in a clinking, chiming, shimmering, glinting pile of silver coinage amid which
gleamed a few gold disks. Laboriously and without happiness, Bourne clinked them
all back into the pouches of soft leather, each the size of a nice cushion. He
paced forward to lay them, clinking, atop a huge square stone against which
leaned another. All as specified.
‘Very good.’ The voice, male and young, came out of the shadows somewhere; no
valley floor was so jumbled with stones as this once-courtyard of Eaglebeak.
‘Now get on your horse and ride back to Sanctuary.’
‘I will not. You have something for me.’
‘Walk over to the acacia tree, then, and look towards Sanctuary.’
‘I will walk over to the tree and watch the saddlebags, thanks, thief. If you