David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'Why do they laugh?' he asked her.

'My walk is comical,' she said.

'Would you laugh at another's misfortune?'

'Last winter the merchant Lunder, a large man and very pompous, came to collect a debt from Father. As he left, his foot slipped on the ice. He struggled to stay upright, then his legs flew up in the air and he fell into a ditch. I laughed so much there were tears running down my face.'

'I don't understand where the humour lies,' he told her.

'Did the Eldarin not laugh?'

'Yes. They knew great joy. But it was never as a result of brutality or derision.'

They fell silent and walked on. Outside the gates they turned on to the main street and on through the square. There were four fresh corpses hanging from the gibbet there. Three had placards around their necks proclaiming the single word: THIEF; the fourth placard said DESERTER. Several women were standing in front of the gibbet. Two were weeping.

'So much pain in the world,' said Shira. Duvodas did not reply. Few were the days when the gibbet went unused.

They moved on, reaching the tavern just before dusk. Shira's father stepped out to meet them. Fat, tall and bald, Ceofrin was every inch the tavern-keeper, his face ruddy with good health, his smile swift and reassuring. Duvodas sensed that Ceofrin was hoping for good news, and his heart sank.

'Did you two have a good picnic?' he asked.

'Aye, Father,' said Shira, letting go of Duvo's arm. 'It was very pleasant.' Slipping past him she limped into the tavern.

Ceofrin took the picnic hamper from Duvo. 'You two make a fine couple,' he said. 'I've never seen her so happy.'

'She is a wonderful girl,' Duvo agreed.

'And she'll make a fine wife. With a handsome dowry!'

'With or without the dowry,' said Duvo. Shira had placed his harp on a nearby table. Now he gathered it up and began to walk towards the stairs.

'Wait,' said Ceofrin. 'I'd like a word with you, lad - if you don't mind.'

Duvo took a deep breath and turned back, his grey-green eyes focusing on Ceofrin's blunt, honest face.

There was no hiding his emotions; the innkeeper was worried, and it showed. He sat down at a table by the leaded glass window and gestured to Duvo to sit opposite. 'This is not easy for me, Duvodas.' He licked his lips, then rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. 'I'm not a fool. I know the world is a harsh, cruel place. Two of my sons are buried in unmarked graves somewhere south of Morgallis. My daughter - the most beautiful child you ever saw - was crippled beneath a wagon. My wife died of the Eldarin Plague - as did nearly a quarter of the people in Corduin five years ago. You understand what I'm saying? I don't see life like one of your songs.'

'I understand,' said Duvo, softly, waiting for the man to get to the point.

'But Shira now . . . she's different. Never complained about the leg, did you know that? Just took the hurt and got on with her life. Everyone loves her. She's like a ... a living embodiment of your music. When she is around people smile. They feel good. She's nineteen now, an old maid. All of her school friends are married; some with babes. But not many suitors will consider a crippled wife. Shira understood this, yet still she fell in love. Not with a baker, or a tailor's clerk, but with a handsome musician. I am a plain man, and not good with the ladies. I can tell those who are, though. You could have your pick. You understand what I'm saying? She loves you, man, and that means you have it in your power to destroy her.' Ceofrin rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if trying to wipe a bad taste from his lips. 'So where do you stand?' he said at last.

'I love her,' said Duvo simply. 'But she and I have spoken of this. I cannot wed. There is much that I cannot speak of, Ceofrin. I would be a danger to her.'

'You are a spy?' Ceofrin's voice dropped to a husky whisper, fear shone in his eyes.

Duvo shook his head. 'No. This . . . petty war means nothing to me.' He leaned forward. 'Listen to me, Ceofrin, I would never willingly do anything to harm her. And I have not . . . nor will I ... take advantage of her love. You understand that? I'll not be leaving her with a swollen belly. But I will be leaving come the spring.'

Ceofrin was silent for a moment. When at last he spoke his voice was edged with bitterness. 'A curse on love!' he said. 'Like life, it always ends in unhappiness.' Pushing himself to his feet, he strode away towards the kitchens. Duvo hefted his harp and lightly ran his fingers over the twenty-five strings. Light notes echoed around the room and a host of dust motes, lit by a sudden shaft of sunlight, seemed to dance in rhythm to the sweetness of the sound.

'No man should curse love,' said Duvo. 'Ultimately, love is all there is.'

Brune had never been in a city as large as Corduin, and as he walked along beside Tarantio's horse he tried to remember landmarks. There were scores of roads and alleys, crossing and re-crossing wide avenues, lines of shops and stalls, and beyond them workplaces and factories. There were, it seemed to Brune, hundreds of statues, most of them portraying lions - some with wings, some with two heads, some wearing crowns.

They had journeyed less than a mile and Brune was hopelessly confused. Confusion was a major fact of Brune's life, and it scared him. He glanced nervously up at Tarantio. 'Do you know where we are?' he asked.

'Of course.'

The answer reassured Brune, and his panic vanished. 'There are lots of lion statues,' he said.

'It is the symbol of Corduin's ruling house.' Tarantio swung the horse to the right, down a narrow cobbled street. Brune's boots were thin, and the cobbles dug into the soles of his feet.

'Are we nearly there?'

'Nearly,' agreed Tarantio, turning left into an even narrower alley which opened out into a circular stable-yard. Several horses were in their stalls: others were being exercised in a field nearby. A short, wiry, elderly man with a drooping grey moustache approached the two men. Tarantio swung down from the saddle.

'A fine beast,' said the newcomer, eyeing the horse. 'Just a small cow-hock short of greatness. My name is Chase. What can I do for you?'

'I'd like to winter him here,' said Tarantio.

'There are cheaper places, my friend,' said Chase amiably.

'The best rarely comes cheap,' said Tarantio. 'What down payment do you require?'

'Who recommended you to me?'

'The merchant, Lunder. I came here last year to view his prize mares. Liked what I saw.'

'Will he guarantee your payment?'

'I need no guarantees. My word is iron.'

Chase looked hard at him, his flinty eyes raking Tarantio's lean face. 'I think that's probably true, warrior. Therefore, from you, I'll take two gold pieces. That will keep him in grain and grass for two months. Then I shall require a further five to last until the spring.'

Tarantio opened his coat and reached inside, producing a small pouch from which he took seven small gold coins. Each was embossed with two crossed swords on the face, the reverse showing a spreading oak. He passed the coins to Chase.

'You are a trusting man, I see,' said Chase.

'Indeed I am. But not blindly so. You say your name is Chase. Once you were called Persial, the Fleet One. For twenty-five years you were the finest horse-racer in the Duchies. Your career ended when you were fifty. Someone offered you a fortune to lose a race, but you refused. Your hands and feet were broken with hammers. Now you are Chase, the horse-trainer.'

Chase smiled grimly. 'Men change, stranger. Perhaps now I am wiser.'

Tarantio shook his head. 'Men don't change. They just learn to disguise the lack of change. I'd like him grain-fed, and I shall be visiting regularly.'

'Whenever you like.'

'Can you recommend a place to stay for a few nights?'