Sergeant Raskan dipped a knife blade into the blood-broth. The soup was thickening nicely. Sagander might retch at the taste, at least at first, but this rich broth might well save his life.
Draconus stood beside him, eyeing the horses. ‘I was wrong to take Hellar from him, I think.’
‘Lord?’
‘They are truly bound now.’
‘Yes, Lord, that they are. She acted fast — no hesitation at all. That mare will give her life defending Arathan, you can be sure of that.’
‘I am… now.’
‘Not like the tutor, was it, Lord?’
‘There can be deep bitterness, sergeant, when youth dwindles into the distant past. When the ache of bones and muscles is joined by the ache of longing, and regrets haunt a soul day and night.’
Raskan considered this, as respectfully as he could, and then he shook his head. ‘Your capacity for forgiveness is greater than mine would be, Lord-’
‘I have not spoken of forgiveness, sergeant.’
Raskan nodded. ‘That is true. But, Lord, were a man to so strike my son-’
‘Enough of that,’ Draconus cut in, his tone deepening. ‘There are matters beyond you here, sergeant. Still, no need for you to apologize — you spoke from your heart and I will respect that. Indeed, I begin to believe it is the only thing worth respecting, no matter our station, or our fate.’
Stirring the blood-broth again, Raskan said nothing. For a moment there, he had forgotten the vast divide between him and Lord Draconus. He had indeed spoken from his heart, but in an unguarded, unmindful fashion. Among other highborn, his comment might well have earned a beating; even a stripping of his rank.
But Draconus did not work that way, and he met the eye of every soldier and every servant under his care. Ah, now if only he would do that for his only son.
‘I see by the firelight that your boots are sadly worn, sergeant.’
‘It’s the way I walk, Lord.’
‘Out here, moccasins are far better suited.’
‘Yes, Lord, but I have none.’
‘I have an old pair, sergeant — they might prove somewhat too large, but if you do as do the Borderswords — filling them out as needed with fragrant grasses — then you will find them serviceable.’
‘Lord, I-’
‘You would refuse my generosity, sergeant?’
‘No, Lord. Thank you.’
There was a long time of silence. Raskan glanced over to where the Borderswords were crouched round the second cookfire. Ville had called out that the steaks were ready but neither the sergeant nor his lord moved. Hungry though he was, the cloying reek of the blood-broth had drowned Raskan’s appetite. Besides, he could not abandon Draconus without leave to do so.
‘This swirl of stars,’ Draconus suddenly said, ‘marks the plunge of light into darkness. These stars, they are distant suns, shining their light down upon distant, unknown worlds. Worlds, perhaps, little different from this one. Or vastly different. It hardly matters. Each star swirls its path towards the centre, and at that centre there is death — the death of light, the death of time itself.’
Shaken, Raskan said nothing. He had never heard such notions before — was this what the scholars in Kharkanas believed?
‘Tiste are comforted by their own ignorance,’ Draconus said. ‘Do not imagine, sergeant, that such matters are discussed at court. No. Instead, imagine the lofty realm of scholars and philosophers as little different from a garrison of soldiers, cooped up too long and too close in each other’s company. Squalid, venal, pernicious, poisoned with ambitions, a community of betrayal and jealously guarded prejudices. Titles are like splashes of thin paint upon ugly stone — the colour may look pretty, but what lies behind it does not change. Of itself, knowledge holds no virtue — it is armour and sword, and while armour protects it also isolates, and while a sword can swing true, so too can it wound its wielder.’
Raskan stirred the soup, feeling strangely frightened. He had no thoughts he could give voice to, no opinions that could not but display his own stupidity.
‘Forgive me, sergeant. I have embarrassed you.’
‘No, Lord, but I fear I am easily confused by such notions.’
‘Was I not clear enough in my point? Do not let the title of scholar, or poet, or lord, intimidate you overmuch. More importantly, do not delude yourself into imagining that such men and women are loftier, or somehow cleverer or purer of integrity or ideal than you or any other commoner. We live in a world of facades, but the grins behind them are all equally wretched.’