'He's fine,' he said. 'It'd take more than that to kill him. And we only need him talking, not standing.'

At Malcolm's signal, Horace stepped forward and heaved the Genovesan to his feet. The prisoner snarled at him in his own tongue and Horace regarded him from a very close range. Something in the warrior's eyes seemed to register with the assassin and he stopped his stream of abuse.

'What's your name?' Malcolm asked him, using the common language. The Genovesan switched his glare to the healer and shrugged contemptuously, saying nothing. It was an insulting action and it was also a mistake. Horace's open hand slapped hard across the side of his head, jerking it to one side and setting his ears ringing.

'Make no mistake, you vulture,' Horace said. 'We don't like you. We have no interest in making sure you're comfortable. In fact, the more uncomfortable you are, the better I'm going to like it.'

'Your name?' Malcolm repeated.

Horace sensed the man's shoulders beginning to rise again in that same dismissive shrug. His right hand went up and back, this time bunched into a fist.

'Horace!' Malcolm called out. He needed the man conscious to answer his questions. Horace kept his fist raised. The Genovesan's eyes were riveted on it. He'd felt the casual power behind the young man's slap. A punch would be a lot worse, he knew.

'He can still talk with a broken nose,' Horace said. But now the Genovesan seemed to decide there was no point to taking more punishment for the sake of concealing his name.

'Sono Bacari.'

Again, he shrugged. It seemed to be a favourite action with the man and he could imbue it with enormous contempt, Horace noted. It was as if he were saying, 'So my name is Bacari, so what? I only tell you because I choose to.' The arrogant attitude, and the dismissive action that accompanied it, antagonised Horace even further. He lowered his fist, and when he saw Bacari smile to himself, suddenly kicked the man's legs from underneath him, sending him sprawling heavily on the ground again, the fall driving the wind out of him. Horace placed the flat of his foot on the man's chest and pinned him down.

'Speak the common tongue,' he ordered.

Horace glanced at Will, who had dismounted and was leaning wearily against Tug's side, watching with a suspicion of a smile on his face. Like Horace, he felt not one ounce of compassion towards the Genovesan. And he knew it would be important for the man to understand that they would not spare him any pain in finding out the information they were seeking.

'If he doesn't behave, kick him in the ribs,' Will said.

Horace nodded. 'With pleasure.' He leaned down again to the man, who had regained his breath. 'Now let's try it again. In the common tongue. Your name?'

There was a moment's hesitation as the man, glaring in fury, met Horace's eyes. Then he muttered, 'My name is Bacari.'

Horace straightened up and glanced at Malcolm. 'All right. He's all yours.'

The healer nodded and gestured towards the camp fire, and the unconscious form beside it.

'Bring him over here, will you, Horace,' he asked. He walked to the camp fire and sat down cross-legged. Horace simply reached down, grabbed Bacari by the scruff of his neck and dragged him across the ground to a spot facing Malcolm. He jerked him upright into a sitting position and stood over him, his arms folded. Bacari was very aware of his threatening presence.

'Just give us a little room, please,' Malcolm asked in a mild tone. Horace stepped back a few paces, although he remained alert, watching the Genovesan keenly.

'Now, Bacari.' Malcolm's tone was calm and conversational. 'You shot our friend here with one of your bolts.' He indicated Halt, lying a few metres away, his chest barely moving as he breathed. Bacari seemed to register the Ranger's presence for the first time and his eyes widened. After all, he had seen them bury their companion. Or he had thought as much.

'Still alive?' he said, surprised. 'He should have been dead two days ago!'

'Sorry to disappoint you,' Horace said sardonically.

Malcolm gave him a warning glance, then continued. 'You used a poison on the tip of your bolt.'

Bacari shrugged again. 'Maybe I did,' he said carelessly.

Malcolm shook his head. 'Certainly you did. You poisoned the tip of your crossbow with aracoina.'

That definitely took Bacari by surprise. His eyes widened and before he could stop himself he replied, 'How can you know that?' He realised it was too late to recover, that he had given away a vital piece of information.

Malcolm smiled at him. But the smile went no further than his lips.

'I know many things,' he said.

Bacari recovered from his initial surprise and pushed out his bottom lip in an insolent, careless expression.

'Then you know the antidote,' he said, his former dismissive manner having returned. 'Why not give it to him?'

Malcolm leaned forward to make full eye contact.

'I know there are two antidotes,' he said. Again Bacari gave an involuntary start of surprise as he spoke, and although he recovered quickly, Malcolm had noticed the reaction. 'And I know the wrong one will kill him.'

'Che sara, sara,' Bacari replied.

'What did he say?' Horace demanded instantly, taking a step forward. But Malcolm gestured him back again.

'He said, what will be, will be. He's obviously a philosopher.' Then he turned his gaze back to the Genovesan. 'Speak the common tongue. Last warning, or my big friend will slice your ears off and cram them down your murdering throat to choke you.'

It was the mild, conversational tone in which the brutal words were delivered that made the threat more frightening – that and the unblinking stare that Malcolm now fixed on the assassin. He saw that the message had gone home. Bacari's eyes dropped from his.

'All right. I speak,' he said softly. Malcolm nodded several times.

'Good. So long as we understand each other.' He noticed that the man's quiver still hung by his belt. Will had secured his hands behind his back with thumb cuffs so that the quiver and its contents were well beyond his reach. He had seen no reason to waste more time unbuckling it and discarding it. Malcolm leaned across to Bacari, reaching out for the quiver. Initially, Bacari tried to withdraw, thinking another blow might be coming. Then he relaxed as Malcolm carefully withdrew one of the bolts and inspected the point.

Malcolm's brows knotted in a frown as he saw the discoloured, gummy substance coating the first few centimetres of the steel tip.

'Yes,' he said softly, the disgust obvious in his voice. 'This is poisoned, all right. Now all we need to know is: which variety did you use? The blue flower or the white?'

Bacari broke Malcolm's gaze. He glanced at the still figure a few metres away, then allowed his eyes to roam, taking in the threatening form of Horace and the exhausted young Ranger standing back some distance, watching in silence. He sensed the expectancy in the two young men, read the tension in the air as they awaited his answer. In spite of their threats, he instinctively knew that these three would not kill him in cold blood. They might beat him, and he could stand that. In the heat of battle, he knew either of the younger men would kill him without hesitation. But here, with his hands tied behind his back and his feet hobbled? Never.

He smiled inwardly. He had seen their eyes and he was an expert at reading character. If the situation were reversed, he would kill them without a second's thought. He possessed the cold-blooded cruelty necessary to perform such an act. And because he had it himself, he could see that it was missing in them.

Sure of himself now, he looked back to Malcolm and allowed the inner smile to break through to the surface.

'I forget,' he said. Thirty-nine Bacari heard the sudden rush of feet and turned too late. The younger Ranger was upon him before he could make any attempt at evasion. He felt hands grip the front of his jacket and lift him to his feet. The young face was thrust close to his. Grey with fatigue, eyes red-rimmed, Will found renewed energy in the sudden burst of hatred he felt for this sneering killer.