‘One of us had to stay behind,’ she murmured.
She led us to the door of the next cottage, but held out an arm to stop us entering. Instead, we crowded around the doorway and gazed inside.
The room was identical in layout to hers, but here, the smell of sweat and sickness hung in the air. Heavy fabrics had been hung at the door and windows to keep the heat inside. I could just make out a man lying on the bed, cocooned in blankets. Only the ragged cough and the sheen of sweat on his skin revealed he was still alive, though I doubted he’d be for long.
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
‘We don’t know,’ Rhissa replied. ‘He was grievously wounded when he arrived here. Our healer did his best, but he said the wounds were too deep, and cruelly placed to ensure a slow, painful death.’
‘So when the others left . . . ?’ Brasti asked.
She sighed. ‘I couldn’t leave him to die alone like that.’
‘Why did he come here?’ Kest asked.
‘I don’t know. He just keeps repeating the same two words over and over. It sounds like “Sheen Shitaley”.’
The language was archaic Tristian, but the meaning escaped me.
I turned to Kest who was looking equally confused. ‘“Sien Sitale”. I believe it means “Noisy Footsteps”.’
At his words, Morn gave out a sudden cry and pushed past us, shaking Rhissa off as she tried to stop him, but he stopped at the bedside and stared down at the man – or boy, for with the curtain pushed aside, I could now see he couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. He had long russet hair and the sharp, broad features of an Avarean.
Morn’s fists were clenched and there was a terrible rage in his eyes.
‘Morn, what in hells is going on?’ I asked. ‘Who is this man?’
‘Sien Sitale,’ he replied. ‘“Noisy Footsteps”.’ It’s what the Rangieri call their apprentices. It’s what my teacher called me – before this Avarean bastard killed him.’
*
Morn appeared to be wrestling with the question of whether he should just strangle the boy, or let him die of his wounds. I hauled him out of the cottage before things got out of hand. It took some time to get the story out of him.
‘How did he come to be here?’ Morn demanded of Rhissa.
‘He stumbled into town, terribly wounded, as I said.’ She was standing her ground despite the uncertainty now clouding her features. ‘He was near death – we thought we should try to help him. We had no idea that he had . . .’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Morn said, though his jaw was so tight you could tell it hurt to say so.
‘Will you . . . ?’ Rhissa hesitated, then she lowered her voice. ‘Will you kill this man now?’
Morn stared out at the empty street. ‘I don’t know. Let me think.’
‘Since when do we execute people without a trial?’ Brasti asked. ‘Not that I’m against it, mind you; it’s just that Falcio usually has a problem with that sort of thing.’
Morn didn’t look as if my approval was a necessary precondition for his vengeance.
‘You didn’t tell us your teacher was dead,’ I said.
‘There are any number of things I didn’t tell you, Falcio.’ He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘I’m sorry – I’m just surprised, that’s all. My teacher, Yimris, was an old man – he may well have been the last Rangieri master in the entire country.’
‘The boy—?’
‘Don’t call him a boy!’ Again, Morn had to calm himself. ‘Any Avarean who can wield a knife is a warrior, and any man who would kill his teacher is a damned murderer.’
‘So he was also a student of this Yimris?’ Kest asked.
‘His name is Gwyn,’ Morn said, ‘and he was Yimris’ student long before I met the old man. He took in the bastard when he was just eight years old, after his parents had been executed for treason against their own warband. By his people’s laws, the child should have died too, but Yimris took him and trained him in the ways of the Rangieri.’
‘If Yimris saved the boy, then why would he kill the old man?’
Morn gave a smile that had no joy in it. ‘Because Gwyn wanted to prove himself worthy of rejoining his people, and killing a Tristian Rangieri was his ticket back into Avares.’ Morn’s hands clenched at empty air. ‘By the time I found Yimris, he was near death, but he still made me promise not to go after that damned traitor.’
‘Why?’ Brasti asked, looking puzzled. ‘Why would your teacher—?’
‘Because the Rangieri are stupid that way.’
Oddly, it was the boy, Tam, who spoke first. ‘I will kill him if you ask, sir. Murderers should be punished.’
Morn looked at the child for a long time, then he reached into his coat and took out a small jar of black salve, the ointment we carry to treat our wounds. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked Tam, and when he shook his head, Morn put the jar in his hand. ‘It’s medicine. You put it on wounds, even the ones that have gone green and stinky, and sometimes it can make them better. Mostly, though, it will ease the pain.’
‘I don’t understand, sir – you want us to put this on his wounds?’
Rhissa took the jar from her son. ‘Why would you have us treat this man if he’s a killer?’
‘He won’t attack you or your boy,’ Morn said. ‘It’s not his way. He’s unlikely to survive, but if he does, he’ll go back to his people, or perhaps just disappear into the mountains and live alone.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Tam said again. ‘Don’t you hate him for killing your teacher?’
Morn ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Hate is a heavy load to carry around with you. Rangieri are travellers by trade and by nature, and a traveller cannot afford to carry wasted burdens.’
He rose to his feet and I could see the anger was still there, burning underneath his skin.
‘You’d like the Rangieri, Falcio,’ he said to me as he set off down the empty street. ‘They’re full of stupid sayings like that.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Deserters
Men and women of all ages trudged along the craggy trail that wound its unrelenting, monotonous way through the sparse grass and over the rocks. They moved so slowly that further up the line they looked more like distance markers than people.
‘You soldiers?’ an old man asked, ambling up behind us, his walking stick providing a clacking counterpoint to the slap of his thin-soled shoes on the rough ground.
‘Just labourers, looking for work or food,’ I replied. ‘Or both.’