She had been gone perhaps an hour when he heard her light footfalls on the hard-packed clay of the clearing. He looked up as she entered, her tunic drenched in perspira­tion, her face red, her long hair damp. The sword was still in her hand.

'Did you carry it all the way?' he asked softly.

'Yes. That's what you told me.'

'You did not drop it on the trail and pick it up on your return?'

'No!' she answered, offended.

He believed her, and swore inwardly. 'Do you always do as you are told?' he snapped.

'Yes,' she told him, simply.

'Why?'

Throwing the sword to the table top she stood before him, hands on hips. 'Are you now criticising me for obeying you? What do you want from me?'

He sighed. 'Merely your best – and you gave that today. Rest now. I will prepare supper.'

'Nonsense,' she said sweetly. 'You are an old man, and you look weary. You sit there and I'll bring you some food.'

'I thought we had a truce,' he said, following her to the kitchen, where she took down a large ham and began to slice it.

"That was yesterday. That was before you set out to cheat my father.'

His face darkened. 'I have never cheated anyone in my life.'

She swung on him. 'No? What would you call ten thousand in gold for a few days' work?'

'I did not ask for the sum – he offered it. And if you were eavesdropping – a womanly skill, I've found – then you will have heard me tell him I'd do it for fifty.'

'You want cheese with this ham?' she asked.

'Yes, and bread. Did you hear what I said?'

'I heard you, but I don't believe you. You were trying to force me to fail. Admit it!'

'Yes, I admit it.'

'Then that's all there is to say. There's your food. When you have finished it, clean your plate. And then do me the kindness of spending the evening in your room. I've had enough of your company today.'

"The training doesn't stop just because the sun's gone down,' he said softly. Today we worked your body. This evening we work your mind. And I will go to my room when it pleases me. What are you going to eat?'

"The same as you.'

'Do you have any honey?'

'No.'

'Dried fruit?'

'Yes – why?'

'Eat some. I learnt a long time ago that sweetmeats and cakes sit more easily on a tired stomach. You'll sleep better and wake more refreshed. And drink a lot of water.'

'Anything else?'

'If I think of anything I'll tell you. Now let us finish this meal and start to work.'

Having finished his meal Angel cleared away the ash of the previous night's fire, laid fresh kindling, and struck a spark to the tinder. Miriel had eaten in the kitchen, and had then walked through the cabin and out into the night. Angel was angry with himself. You are no teacher, he thought. And the girl was right –he wanted her to quit. But not for the reasons she believed. He sighed and leaned back on his haunches, watching the tiny flames devouring the kindling, feeling the first soft waves of heat from the fire.

He had tried to train the boy, Ranuld, showing him the moves and defences he would need in his new career, but Ranuld had died from a disembowelling cut in his first fight. Then there was Sorrin, tall and athletic, fearless and fast. He had lasted for seven fights – had even become a favourite with the crowd. Senta had killed him – heelspin and reverse thrust to the throat. Good move, beautifully executed. Sorrin was dead before he knew it.

That was the day Angel retired. He had fought a dull Vagrian, whose name he couldn't recall. The man was tough, but slowed by a recent wound. Even so he had almost taken Angel, cutting him twice. After the battle Angel had sat in the arena surgery, the doctor stitching his wounds, while on the table opposite lay Sorrin's bloody corpse. Beside it sat Senta, a bandage soaked in honey and wine being applied to a shallow cut in his shoulder.

'You trained him well,' said Senta. 'He almost took me.'

'Not well enough,' answered Angel.

'I look forward to meeting the master.'

Angel had looked into the young man's eager eyes, seeing the mocking expression on the handsome face, the smile that was almost a sneer. 'It won't happen, boy,' he had said, the words tasting like acid in his mouth. 'I'm too old and slow. This is your day. Enjoy it.'

'You are leaving the arena?' whispered Senta, astonished.

'Yes. That was my last fight.'

The young man nodded, then cursed as the orderly tied the knot in the bandage on his shoulder. 'You dolt!' snapped Senta.

'I'm sorry, sir!' said the man, moving back, his face twisted in fear.

Senta returned his gaze to Angel. 'I think you are wise, old man, but for myself I am disappointed. You are a favourite with the crowds. I could have made my fortune by defeating you.'

Angel added wood to the fire and stood. Senta had only fought for one more year, then he had joined the Guild, earning far more as an assassin than a gladiator.

The door opened behind him, and he felt a cold draught. Turning he saw Miriel walking towards her room. She was naked and carrying her clothes, her body wet from a bath in the stream. His gaze took in her narrow back and waist, the long muscular legs and firm, rounded buttocks. Arousal touched him and he swung back to the fire.

After a few minutes Miriel joined him, her body clothed in a loose woollen robe of grey wool. 'What work did you have in mind?' she asked him, seating herself in the chair opposite.

'You know why I slapped you?'

'You wanted to dominate me.'

'No. I wanted to see you angry. I needed to know how you reacted when your blood was high.' Idly he stabbed at the fire with an iron poker. 'Listen to me, girl, I am not a teacher. I have only trained two people – young men I loved. Both died. I am , . . was … a fine fighter, but just because I have a skill does not mean I can pass it on. You understand?' She remained silent, her large eyes staring at him, expressionless. 'I was a little in love with Danyal, I think, and I have respect for your father. I came here to warn him, so that he would leave the area, travel to Ventria or Gothir. And yes, I could use the gold. But that's not why I came, nor is it why I agreed to stay. If you choose not to believe me then I will leave in the morning – and I will not claim the fortune.'

Still she said nothing.

'I don't know what else I can say to you.' He shrugged and sat back.

'You told me we were going to work,' she said softly. 'On my mind. What did you mean?'

He spread his hands and stared into the fire. 'Did your father ever tell you about the test he set Danyal?'

'No. But I heard you say I would fail it.'

'Yes, you would.' And Angel told her of the pebble in the moonlight, and talked on of the warrior's heart, the willingness to risk everything, but the confidence to believe the risk was calculated.

'How do I achieve this?' she asked.

'I don't know,' he admitted.

'The two men you trained – did they have it?'

'Ranuld believed he did, but he tied up in his first fight, his muscles tense, his movements halting. Sorrin had it, I think, but he met a better man. It comes from an ability to close off that part of the imagination that is fuelled by fear. You know, the part that pictures terrible wounds and gangrene, pumping blood and the darkness of death. But at the same time the mind must continue to function, seeing the opponent's weaknesses, planning ways through his defences. You have seen my scars. I have been cut many times – but always I won. And I beat better men, faster men, stronger men. I beat them because I was too obstinate to give up. And their confidence would begin to fail, and the windows of their minds would creep open. Their imagination would seep out, and they would begin to doubt, to fear. And from that moment it did not matter that they were better, or faster or stronger. For I would grow before their eyes and they would shrink before mine.'