‘If it proves a mistake I’ll kill you,’ Waylander told him.
‘You are an unusual man. How did you know I wouldn’t gut you as soon as you closed in on me?’
Waylander shrugged. ‘I didn’t.’
The swordsman nodded. ‘I think I will travel with you,’ he said. ‘I heard you tell Angel you were heading north. I’ve always wanted to return to Gothir. I had some fine times there.’
‘I may not want your company,’ said Waylander.
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‘I can see that might be so. But there was something else you told Angel that interested me greatly.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘You’re looking for a husband for Miriel.’
‘You know where I might find one?’
‘Very droll. I am a rich man, and not – despite your efforts -unhandsome. And my father continues to berate me for not supplying him with a grandson. I’ll take her off your hands.’
‘Shemak’s balls, but you’ve got nerve!’ stormed Angel.
‘I like a man with nerve,’ said Waylander. Til think on it.’
‘You’re not serious!’ exclaimed Angel. ‘A few minutes ago this man was trying to kill you for money. He’s an assassin.’
‘Which of course puts me lower on the social scale than an arena-killer,’ observed Senta.
‘Madness!’ muttered Angel, stalking back into the cabin.
Senta sheathed his sabre. ‘Why are we heading north?’ he asked.
‘There’s someone I must find in Gulgothir.’
Miriel carried a bowl of heated water and a clean cloth to where Senta sat. She had not heard his conversation with her father, but she saw he now had his sabre once more. The blond warrior looked up through swollen eyes. He smiled. ‘Merciful care for the fallen hero?’
‘You are not a hero,’ she told him, dipping the cloth in the water and gently sponging away the blood staining Senta’s face. Reaching up he took hold of her wrist.
‘He stamped on my head, but he did not throw the useless carcass out into the forest.’
‘Be grateful for that,’ she said, pulling her hand free.
‘Interesting man. He read me well. He knew I wouldn’t kill him before he’d drawn a weapon.’
‘What will you do now?’ she asked.
He grinned, then winced as pain flared through his
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broken nose. ‘I shall enter a monastery and devote my life to good works.’
‘It was a serious question.’
‘And you are a serious woman, beauty. Too serious. Do you laugh much? Do you dance? Do you make assignations with young men?’
‘What I do is none of your affair! And stop calling me beauty. I don’t like it.’
‘Yes, you do. But it makes you uncomfortable.’
‘Do you still plan to kill my father?’
‘No.’
‘Am I expected to believe that?’
‘You are free to believe or disbelieve, beauty. How old are you?’
‘I will be eighteen next summer.’
‘Are you a virgin?’
‘You’ll never know!’ she told him. Taking up the bowl, she walked back to the kitchen where Belash was still eating. Most of the ham had gone, and half of the cheese. ‘Is this your first meal in a month?’ she snapped.
The Nadir looked up, his dark eyes expressionless. ‘Fetch me water,’ he ordered.
‘Fetch it yourself, bowel-brain!’ His face darkened and he rose from his seat. Miriel’s dagger swept up. ‘One wrong move, you Nadir dog-eater, and the breakfast you’ve just eaten will be all over the floor.’ Belash grinned and walked to the water jug, filling a clay goblet. ‘What is so amusing?’ she demanded.
‘You kol-isha,’ answered Belash, drawing his own knife and cutting the last slice of ham from the bone. He shook his head and chuckled.
‘What about us?’ persisted Miriel.
‘Where are your babies?’ countered Belash. ‘Where is your man? Why are you garbed for war? Knives and swords – such foolishness.’
‘You think a woman cannot use these weapons?’
‘Of course they can. You should see my Shia – knife, sword, handaxe. But it is not natural. War is for men, for honour and glory.’
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‘And death,’ she pointed out.
‘Of course death. That is why women must be protected. Many babies must be born to replace the dead warriors.’
‘It might be better just to stop the wars.’