‘The point being,’ he said, ‘that there’s only one valid reason for wanting to join this profession. Anything else, and you’re disqualified instantly. And I’ve got an idea it’s not the reason that’s motivating you.’
The girl said nothing, but her cheeks were beginning to glow red. Professional that he was, the trainer could sense a fault in her guard that would repay pressure. He moved onto the offensive.
‘The only reason for fighting people for a living,’ he said, ‘is money. Not love of justice, or honour, or adventure, or prowess, or the desire to be the best. Certainly not the pleasure of killing; most definitely not because secretly you want to find a way you can die before your time without it being your fault. It has to be the money, or nothing. And if you’re about to tell me that it’s all right, you don’t actually intend to practise once you finish the course, you’re just here for the education, then I suggest you get out of my establishment before I have you thrown out into the street. Of all the dirty, disgusting words I know, the very worst of all is amateur. And that’s what you are, isn’t it?’
He was winning; because when the girl replied her voice was unsettled, worried. ‘How would you know?’ she said sullenly.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘you turn up with payment in full in advance, all ready, not even a pretence of haggling or offering to pay in instalments or asking me to wait till you’ve started earning. That’s what professionals do. Obviously, therefore, you’re not a professional.’
Victory. The girl’s hand closed around the purse and dropped to her side. ‘The hell with you, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll just have to go elsewhere.’
‘Best of luck,’ the trainer replied, relieved that the fight was over. Even so, now that he’d won, he couldn’t help feeling a burning curiosity. After all, she hadn’t answered his question. He asked it again.
‘None of your business.’
‘If you tell me,’ he said, ‘I might be able to point you in the right direction.’
The girl shrugged; the matter was no longer important. The mere gesture seemed to devalue his victory. ‘Revenge,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Ah,’ the trainer replied, ‘I might have guessed. If there’s one thing I despise almost as much as amateurs, it’s melodrama.’
The girl gave him an unpleasant stare. ‘My uncle was killed by an advocate called Bardas Loredan. The only way I can legally punish him is to become an advocate myself. So that’s what I’m going to do.’
In spite of himself, the trainer couldn’t help being intrigued. ‘What’s so significant about being legal?’ he asked. ‘If it’s so terribly important to you, why not just hire a couple of bright lads to cut his throat in an alley somewhere? I could definitely give you a few recommendations there; quite a few of our ex-students diversify into that area of the profession after a couple of years.’
The girl shook her head. ‘That would be murder,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe in murder, it’s wrong. This has to be done right.’
Several replies occurred to the trainer, but he voiced none of them. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Start a lawsuit against one of his regular clients, and hire a better fencer. He’ll be killed and it’ll be completely legal.’
‘That would still be murder,’ the girl replied. ‘It’s not as if Loredan’s done anything wrong, after all. He was just doing his job, so he hasn’t committed any crime that would put him outside the law. But he killed my uncle and so he’s got to be punished.’
Before the trainer could say anything, she had turned and walked away; out of the hall and out of his life. Most of him was only too glad to be rid of her; but there was one small dangerous part of him that regretted losing so unusual a subject for observation. The trainer had seen all kinds of strange people – the sad, the sick, the disturbed, the crazy and the plain old-fashioned stupid – but never one like this. Probably, he reminded himself, just as well. Bad trouble on two legs is always best avoided.
It wasn’t until quite late in the afternoon that Loredan woke up. He was hung over, depressed and angry with himself for not coping better. He decided to go out for a drink.
If a man wants to get thoroughly drunk in the lower city of Perimadeia, there are any number of places he can go, between them covering all the nuances of the mood, from boisterous jollity to utter self-loathing and all the fine gradations in between. From the fashionable inns where respectable people talked business over good wine to the unlicenced drinking-clubs behind a curtain in the back room of someone’s house, there was an abundance of choice that was sometimes offputting. There were taverns that advertised their presence with enormous mosaic signs, and others which did their best to be invisible. There were taverns that were government offices, taverns that were theatres, taverns that were academies of music or pure mathematics; there were temples to forbidden gods, corn exchanges and futures markets, dancing floors and mechanics’ institutes, places that allowed women and places that provided them, places to go if you wanted to watch a fight, places to go if you wanted to start one. There were even taverns where you went to argue over which tavern you were going to go to. And there were places you could go and sit on your own until you were too drunk to move. In fact, there were a lot of those.
The one Loredan chose didn’t have a name or even many customers; it was basically the back room of a wheelright’s shop, with four plain tables, eight oil lamps and a hatch you banged on when you wanted more to drink. Nobody spoke much, though occasionally someone sang for half a minute or so. There was a channel under the back wall to piss in if you were feeling refined. If you happened to die where you sat, nobody would hold it against you. The wine was no worse for you than a dose of malaria.
Loredan was halfway through a small jug of the stuff when someone walked up and sat down opposite him.
‘Bardas,’ he said.
Loredan raised his head. ‘Teoclito,’ he replied. ‘Aren’t you dead?’
‘Not yet.’ Teoclito put down his jug and filled both cups. ‘Mind you, I’m not trying as hard as you. How’s life in the legal profession?’
‘Depressing.’
‘Good money, so I hear.’
Loredan shrugged. ‘Better than the army, and you get to wear your own clothes. What about you?’
Teoclito looked about seventy; in fact, he was only five or so years older than Loredan. The last time the two of them had sat together over a jug of wine had been in a tent pitched among the ruins of a town they had reached three days too late. The next day, there had been a bit of a scrimmage with the clans; Teoclito was one of the wounded who was past helping. They’d gone back to put him out of harm’s way, but he hadn’t been where they’d left him. It followed that the clans had him. It helped not to think too hard about such things.
‘Been back three years now,’ Teoclito said. ‘I work in the dancing school, sweeping up after the young ladies. It’s a living.’
Loredan refilled the other man’s cup. ‘And before that?’ he asked.
‘Not much fun. You don’t really want to know.’ Teoclito smiled; he had five teeth. ‘They have surprisingly good doctors, but a wicked sense of humour. Eventually they turned me loose.’
‘Just like that?’
‘No room for passengers in the caravan, and they’re a superstitious bunch. Terrible bad luck to kill a cripple.’
‘And after that?’
Teoclito sighed wearily. ‘Oh, I walked to the coast, got there, found I’d been going in the wrong direction. After that I didn’t feel much like walking any more, so I stayed put.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Solamen.’ Loredan raised an eyebrow; Solamen was up on the north coast, two months’ walk from the place where they’d parted. Among other things, it was a flourishing slave market. ‘I got a job, of sorts. Unpaid. Sort of like voluntary work.’
‘Ah.’
‘Finally I ended up helping row a big boat,’ Teoclito continued. ‘And when this boat got sunk off Canea, I swam ashore, and now here I am. I’d like to say how nice it is to be back, but I have a basic respect for the truth that prevents me.’