The Path of Anger Read Free Page B

compared to your arrogance,’ he added in a low mutter.
    He wanted nothing to do with her, or with the Nâaga, or with what he had once been. Here, he was simply Dun and that was enough. Viola observed him closely, noting the details of his time-worn face, the brown wrinkles marking his cheeks. Dun-Cadal, the glorious general, now gone to ground in the slums of Masalia. He had not come here looking to make a new life for himself, but in search of death. She then noticed he was seated with his back to the door, so that any cutthroat could take him by surprise. If he was recounting, night after night, how he had been a soldier of the Empire, perhaps he hoped that someone seeking vengeance would finally put an end to his torment.
    ‘You await death here,’ Viola said.
    ‘I await whatever is given to me. Another jug, for example?’
    With a sad expression, he upturned the empty container on the table with a trembling hand and gave the Nâaga to his right a twisted scowl. As was his wont, Rogant did not react.
    ‘Help us,’ pleaded Viola. ‘That sword is more important than you can imagine. I must find it.’
    But amidst the raucous noise of the tavern her request seemed to go unheard. The smoke from the pipe of a fat man seated at an adjoining table drifted between the old general and herself.
    ‘I beg you, Dun-Cadal . . .’
    He slowly waved away the cloud of smoke, lost in his thoughts. She was wasting her breath. He wasn’t listening any more. Rogant leaned towards her and the look he gave her was eloquent enough to need no words. She swallowed and ran her gloved hands over her cape which had barely had time to dry. Then she stood up.
    ‘Very well,’ she declared. ‘I suppose it’s useless to plead with you.’
    She slowly drew up her hood so that only the sparkle of her green eyes penetrated the darkness masking her face.
    ‘I thought I was speaking to the great General Dun-Cadal but I’m forced to conclude I was mistaken. Look at you . . . you’re not even the shadow of what you once were. You’re an empty husk withoutany dignity, only fit to raise a glass in bitterness. I can scarcely believe the legend of your deeds at the battle of the Saltmarsh can be true. Seeing you like this, I’m forced to doubt you ever had greatness in you.’
    He did not once lift his eyes to hers while she spoke.
    ‘Yes . . . you came here to find death. You haven’t understood: you’re already dead. You can try to hide your true identity, to protect your reputation, but you’re wasting your time. When the world learns what has become of Dun-Cadal Daermon . . . the only tears shed will be of pity, not of sorrow.’
    She disappeared into the crowd without waiting for a reply, followed by the Nâaga. As the fresher air in the alley cleared away the stale smell of sweat and alcohol, she was still asking herself if she had found the right words, and she slowed her stride as they walked through the pouring rain.
    ‘Have faith,’ Rogant advised.
    Have faith? When she hadn’t even been warned she’d be dealing with Dun-Cadal Daermon, not some ordinary soldier.
    ‘I’ve known him longer than you have,’ Rogant was saying. ‘ He knows what he’s doing.’
    As if to confirm this statement, a voice called out from behind them.
    ‘Hey!’
    Viola turned round slowly. Dun-Cadal was an even more miserable sight standing on the tavern step than he had been seated at his table. The rain dripped down his face and it was possible there were tears mixed in with it.
    ‘What do you know of Dun-Cadal?’ he snarled with a quaver in his voice. ‘You come here , you sit at my table and you spit all over what I was. What I am . . . what I will still be . . .’ He balled his fists, tottering on his feet. ‘But what do you know?’ he raged. ‘What has the Republic taught you?’
    He took a few paces and then slumped against a wall. A flash of lightning illuminated his wrinkled face. He seemed so . . . ravaged.
    ‘What do you know of my