the Prince’s bodyguard. I also don’t think he would come to my aid if I were
hard-pressed in a fight.’
Just then Zalbar noticed a small flower garden nestled beside a . house not far
from their path. A man was at work in the garden, watering and pruning. The
sight created a sudden wave of nostalgia in the Hell Hound. How long had it been
since he stood outside the Emperor’s Palace in the Capitol, fighting boredom by
watching the gardeners pampering the flowered grounds? It seemed like a
lifetime. Despite the fact that he was a soldier by profession, or perhaps
because he was a soldier, he had always admired the calm beauty of flowers.
‘Let’s eat there … under that tree,’ he suggested, indicating a spot with a
view of the garden. ‘It’s as good a place as any.’ Razkuli hesitated, glancing
at the gardened house and started to say something, then shrugged and veered
towards the tree. Zalbar saw the mischievous smile flit briefly across his
comrade’s face, but ignored it, preferring to contemplate the peaceful garden
instead.
The pair dined in the manner of hardened, but off-duty, campaigners. Rather than
facing each other, or sitting side-by-side, the two assumed back-to-back
positions in the shade of a spreading tree. The earthenware wine-flask was
carefully placed to one side, but in easy reach of both. Not only did the
arrangement give them a full circle of vision to ensure that their meal would be
uninterrupted, it also allowed a brief illusion of privacy for the individual
a rare commodity to those whose profession required that every moment be shared