'That pompous windbag is the first minister of Mashrapur, a brilliant politician and a poet of some repute. I'm sure he would be mortally humiliated to know that a young uneducated peasant from the frontier disagrees with his philosophy.'
'Then we won't tell him,' said Druss. 'We'll just leave him here serving up his cow-pats to people who will believe they're steaks. Now I'm thirsty, poet. Do you know of a decent tavern?'
'It depends what you're looking for. The taverns on the docks are rough, and usually filled with thieves and whores. If we walk on for another half-mile we'll come to a more civilised area. There we can have a quiet drink.'
'What about those places over there?' asked Druss, pointing to a row of buildings alongside the wharf.
'Your judgement is unerring, Druss. That is East Wharf, better known to the residents here as Thieves Row. Every night there are a score of fights - and murders. Almost no one of quality would go there - which makes it perfect for you. You go on. I'll visit some old friends who might have news of recent slave movements.'
'I'll come with you,' said Druss.
'No, you won't. You'd be out of place. Most of my friends, you see, are pompous windbags. I'll meet you back at the Tree of Bone by midnight.' Druss chuckled, which only increased Sieben's annoyance as the poet swung away and strode through the park.
*
The room was furnished with a large bed with satin sheets, two comfort chairs padded with horsehair and covered with velvet, and a table upon which sat a jug of wine and two silver goblets. There were rugs upon the floor, woven with great skill and soft beneath her bare feet. Rowena sat upon the edge of the bed, her right hand clasping the brooch Druss had fashioned for her. She could see him walking beside Sieben. Sadness overwhelmed her and her hand dropped to her lap. Harib Ka was dead - as she had known he would be - and Druss was now closer to his dread destiny.
She felt powerless and alone in Collan's house. There were no locks upon the door, but there were guards in the corridor beyond. Yet there was no escape.
On the first night, when Collan had taken her from the camp, he had raped her twice. On the second occasion she had tried to empty her mind, losing herself in dreams of the past. In doing so she had unlocked the doors to her Talent. Rowena had floated free of her abused body and hurtled through darkness and Time. She saw great cities, huge armies, mountains that breached the clouds. Lost, she sought for Druss and could not find him.
Then a voice came to her, a gentle voice, warm and reassuring. 'Be calm, sister. I will help you.'
She paused in her flight, floating above a night-dark ocean. A man appeared alongside her; he was slim of build and young, perhaps twenty. His eyes were dark, his smile friendly. 'Who are you?' she asked him.
'I am Vintar of the Thirty.'
'I am lost,' she said.
'Give me your hand.'
Reaching out she felt his spirit fingers, then his thoughts washed over hers. On the verge of panic Rowena felt herself swamped by his memories, seeing a temple of grey stone, a dwelling-place of white-clad monks. He withdrew from her as swiftly as he had entered her thoughts. 'Your ordeal is over,' he said. 'He has left you and now sleeps beside you. I shall take you home.'
'I cannot bear it. He is a vile man.'
'You will survive, Rowena.'
'Why should I wish to?' she asked him. 'My husband is changing, becoming day by day as vicious as the men who took me. What kind of life will I face?'
'I will not answer that, though probably I could,' he told her. 'You are very young, and you have experienced great pain. But you are alive, and while living can achieve great good. You have the Talent, not only to Soar but also to Heal, to Know. Few are blessed with this gift. Do not concern yourself with Collan; he raped you only because Harib Ka said that he should not and he will not touch you again.'
'He has defiled me.'
'No,' said Vintar sternly, 'he has defiled himself. It is important to understand that.'
'Druss would be ashamed of me, for I did not fight.'
'You fought, Rowena, in your own way. You gave him no pleasure. To have tried to resist would have increased his lust, and his satisfaction. As it was - and you know this to be true - he felt deflated and full of melancholy. And you know his fate.'
'I don't want any more deaths!'
'We all die. You . . . me . . . Druss. The measure of us all is established by how we live.'
He had returned her to her body, taking care to instruct her in the ways of Spirit travel, and the routes by which she could return by herself in the future. 'Will I see you again?' she asked him.
'It is possible,' he answered.
Now, as she sat on the satin-covered bed, she wished she could speak with him again.
The door opened and a huge warrior entered. He was bald and heavily muscled. There were scars around his eyes and his nose was flattened against his face. He moved towards the bed but there was no threat, she knew. Silently he laid a gown of white silk upon the bed. 'Collan has asked that you wear this for Kabuchek.'
'Who is Kabuchek?' she enquired.
'A Ventrian merchant. If you do well he will buy you. It won't be a bad life, girl. He has many palaces and treats his slaves with care.'
'Why do you serve Collan?' she asked.
His eyes narrowed. 'I serve no one. Collan is a friend. I help him sometimes.'
'You are a better man than he.'
'That is as may be. But several years ago, when I was first champion, I was waylaid in an alley by supporters of the vanquished champion. They had swords and knives. Collan ran to my aid. We survived. I always pay my debts. Now put on the gown, and prepare your skill. You need to impress the Ventrian.'
'And if I refuse?'
'Collan will not be pleased and I don't think you would like that. Trust me on this, lady. Do your best and you will be clear of this house.'
'My husband is coming for me,' she said softly. 'When he does, he will kill any who have harmed me.'
'Why tell me?'
'Do not be here when he comes, Borcha.'
The giant shrugged. 'The Fates will decide,' he said.
*
Druss strolled across to the wharf buildings. They were old, a series of taverns created from derelict warehouses and there were recesses and alley entrances everywhere. Garishly dressed women lounged against the walls and ragged men sat close by, playing knucklebones or talking in small groups.
A woman approached him. 'All the delights your mind can conjure for just a silver penny,' she said wearily.
'Thank you, but no,' he told her.
'I can get you opiates, if you desire them?'
'No,' he said, more sternly, and moved on. Three bearded men pushed themselves to their feet and walked in front of him. 'A gift for the poor, my lord?' asked the first.
Druss was about to reply when he glimpsed the man to his left edge his hand into the folds of a filthy shirt. He chuckled. 'If that hand comes out with a knife in it - I'll make you eat it, little man.' The beggar froze.
'You shouldn't be coming here with threats,' said the first man. 'Not unarmed as you are. It's not wise, my lord.' Reaching behind his back, he drew a long-bladed dagger.
As the blade appeared Druss stepped forward and casually backhanded the man across the mouth. The robber cartwheeled to 'the left, scattering a group of watching whores and colliding with a wall of brick. He moaned once, then lay still. Ignoring the other two beggars, Druss strode to the nearest tavern and stepped inside.
The interior was windowless and high-ceilinged, lit by lanterns which hung from the beams. The tavern smelt of burning oil and stale sweat. It was crowded, and Druss eased his way to a long trestle table on which several barrels of ale were set. And old man in a greasy apron approached him. 'You don't want to be drinking before the bouts begin; it'll fill you with wind,' he warned.
'What bouts?'
The man looked at him appraisingly, and his glittering eyes held no hint of warmth. 'You wouldn't be tryi
ng to fool Old Thorn, would you?'
'I'm a stranger here,' said Druss. 'Now, what bouts?'
'Follow me, lad,' said Thorn, and he pushed his way through the crowd towards the back of the tavern and on through a narrow doorway. Druss followed him and found himself standing in a rectangular warehouse where a wide circle of sand had been roped off at the centre. By the far walls were a group of athletes, moving through a series of exercises to loosen the muscles of shoulders and back.
'You ever fought?'
'Not for money.'
Thorn nodded, then reached out and lifted Druss's hand. 'A good size, and flat knuckles. But are you fast, boy?'
'What is the prize?' countered the young man.
'It won't work that way - not for you. This is a standard contest and all the entrants are nominated well in advance so that sporting gentlemen can have opportunities to judge the quality of the fighter. But just before the start of the competition there'll be offers to men in the crowd to earn a few pennies by taking on various champions. A golden raq, for example, to the man who can stay on his feet for one turn of the sandglass. They do it to allow the fighters to warm up against low-quality opposition.'
'How long is one turn?' asked Druss.
'About as long as it's been since you first walked into the Blind Corsair.'
'And what if a man won?'
'It doesn't happen, lad. But if it did, then he'd take the loser's place in the main event. No, the main money is made on wagers among the crowd. How much coin are you carrying?'
'You ask a lot of questions, old man.'
'Pah! I'm not a robber, lad. Used to be, but then I got old and slow. Now I live on my wits. You look like a man who could stand up for himself. At first I mistook you for Grassin the Lentrian -that's him over there, by the far door.' Druss followed the old man's pointing finger and saw a powerfully built young man with short-cropped black hair. He was talking to another heavily-muscled man, a blond warrior with a dangling moustache. 'The other one is Skatha, he is a Naashanite sailor. And the big fellow at the back is Borcha. He'll win tonight. No question. Deadly, he is. Most likely someone will be crippled by him before the evening is out.'
Druss gazed at the man and felt the hackles on his neck rise. Borcha was enormous, standing some seven inches above six feet tall. He was bald, his head vaguely pointed as if his skin was stretched over a Vagrian helm. His shoulders were massively muscled, his neck huge with muscles swollen and bulging.
'No good looking at him like that, boy. He's too good for you. Trust me on that. He's skilled and very fast. He won't even step up for the warming bouts. No one would face him - not even for twenty golden raq. But that Grassin now, I think you could stand against him for a turn of the glass. And if you've some coin to wager, I'll find takers.'
'What do you get, old man?'
'Half of what we make.'
'What odds could you bargain for?'
'Two to one. Maybe three.'
'And if I went against Borcha?'
'Put it from your mind, boy. We want to make money - not coffin fuel.'
'How much?' persisted Druss.
'Ten to one - twenty to one. The gods alone know!'
Druss opened the pouch at his side, removing ten silver pieces. Casually he dropped them into the old man's outstretched hand. 'Let it be known that I wish to stand against Borcha for a turn of the glass.'
'Asia's tits, he'll kill you.'
'If he doesn't, you could make a hundred pieces of silver. Maybe more.'
'There is that, of course,' said Old Thorn, with a crooked grin.
*
Crowds slowly began to fill the warehouse arena. Rich nobles clad in silks and fine leathers, their ladies beside them in lace and satin, were seated on high tiers overlooking the sand circle. On the lower levels were the merchants and traders in their conical caps arid long capes. Druss felt uncomfortable, hemmed in by the mass. The air was growing foul, the temperature rising as more and more people filed in.
Rowena would hate this place, with its noise and its pressing throng. His mood darkened as he thought of her - a prisoner somewhere, a slave to the whims and desires of Collan. He forced such thoughts from his mind, and concentrated instead on his conversation with the poet. He had enjoyed irritating the man; it had eased his own anger, an anger generated by the unwilling acceptance that much of what the speaker in the park had said was true. He loved Rowena, heart and soul. But he needed her also, and he often wondered which was the stronger, love or need. And was he trying to rescue her because he loved her, or because he was lost without her? The question tormented him.
Rowena calmed his turbulent spirit in a way no other living soul ever could. She helped him to see the world through gentle eyes. It was a rare and beautiful experience. If she had been with him now, he thought, he too would have been filled with distaste at the sweating multitude waiting for blood and pain. Instead the young man stood amidst the crowd and felt his heartbeat quicken, his excitement rise at the prospect of combat.
His pale eyes scanned the crowd, picking out the fat figure of Old Thorn talking to a tall man in a red velvet cloak. The man was smiling. He turned from Thorn and approached the colossal figure of Borcha. Druss saw the fighter's eyes widen, then the man laughed. Druss could not hear the sound above the chatter and noise about him, but he felt his anger grow. This was Borcha, one of Collan's men - perhaps one of those who had taken Rowena.
Old Thorn returned through the crowd and led Druss to a fairly quiet corner. 'I've set events in motion,' he said. 'Now listen to me - don't try for the head. Men have broken their hands on that skull. He has a habit of dipping into punches so that the other man's knuckles strike bone. Go for the lower body. And watch his feet - he's a skilled kicker, lad. . . what's your name, by the way?'
'Druss.'
'Well, Druss, you've grabbed a bear by the balls this time. If he hurts you, don't try to hold on; he'll use that head on you, and cave in the bones of your face. Try backing away and covering up.'
'Let him try backing away,' snarled Druss.
'Ah, you're a cocky lad, for sure. But you've never faced a man like Borcha. He's like a living hammer.'
Druss chuckled. 'You really know how to lift a man's spirits. What odds did you find?'
'Fifteen to one. If you hold to your feet, you'll have seventy-five pieces of silver - plus your original ten.'
'Is that enough to buy a slave?'
'What would you want with a slave?'
'Is it enough?'
'Depends on the slave. Some girls fetch upwards of a hundred. You have someone in mind?'
Druss dipped into his pouch, removing the last four silver pieces. 'Wager these also.'
The old man took the money. 'I take it this is your entire wealth?'
'It is.'
'She must be a very special slave?'
'She's my wife. Collan's men took her.'
'Collan takes lots of women. Your wife's not a witch, is she?'
'What?' snarled Druss.
'No offence, lad. But Collan sold a witch woman to Kabuchek the Ventrian today. Five thousand silver pieces she brought.'
'No, she is not a witch. Just a mountain girl, sweet and gentle.'
'Ah well, a hundred should be enough,' said Thorn. 'But first you have to win it. Have you ever been hit?'
'No. But a tree fell on me once.'
'Knock you out?'
'No. I was dazed for a while.'
'Well, Borcha will feel like a mountain fell on you. I hope you've the strength to withstand it.'
'We'll see, old man.'
'If you go down, roll under the ropes. Otherwise he'll stomp you.'
Druss smiled. 'I like you, old man. You don't honey the medicine, do you?'
'Does you no good unless it tastes bad,' replied Thorn, with a crooked grin.
*
Borcha enjoyed the admiring glances from the crowd - fear and respect from the men and healthy lust from the women. He felt he had earned su
ch silent accolades during the past five years. His blue eyes scanned the tiers and he picked out Mapek, the First Minister of Mashrapur, Bodasen the Ventrian envoy, and a dozen more notables from the Emir's government. He kept his face impassive as he gazed around the converted warehouse. It was well known that he never smiled, save in the sand circle when his opponent began to weaken under his iron fists.
He glanced at Grassin, watching the man move through a series of loosening exercises. He had to hold back his smile then. Others might believe Grassin was merely stretching tight muscles, but Borcha could read fear in the man's movements. He focused on the other fighters, staring at them. Few looked his way, and those who did cast fleeting glances, avoiding his eyes.
Losers, all of them, he thought.
He took a deep breath, filling his massive lungs. The air was hot and damp. Signalling to one of his aides, Borcha told the man to open the wide windows at either end of the warehouse. A second aide approached him, 'There is a yokel who wants to try a turn of the glass with you, Borcha.' The fighter was irritated and he surreptitiously studied the crowd. All eyes were on him. So the word was already out! He threw back his head and forced a laugh,
'Who is this man?'
'A stranger from the mountains. Youngster - around twenty, I'd say.'
'That explains his stupidity,' hissed Borcha. No man who had ever seen him fight would relish the prospect of four minutes in the sand circle with the champion of Mashrapur. But still he was annoyed.
Winning involved far more skills than with fists and feet, he knew. It was a complex mix of courage and heart, allied to the planting of the seeds of doubt in the minds of opponents. A man who believed his enemy was invincible had already lost, and Borcha had spent years building such a reputation.
No one in two years had dared to risk a turn of the glass with the champion.
Until now. Which threw up a second problem. Arena fights were without rules: a fighter could legitimately gouge out an opponent's eyes or, after downing him, stamp upon his neck. Deaths were rare, but not unknown, and many fighters were crippled for life. But Borcha would not be able to use his more deadly array of skills against an unknown youngster. It would suggest he feared the boy.