The hostel keeper was stirring a large pot of soup, occasionally sipping a sample off the end of a long wooden spoon, adding a pinch or so of some herb or other with a faintly ridiculous air of precision. She smiled when she saw him, and promised it wouldn’t be long.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’m not stopping. I’d like to settle up, please.’
‘You’re leaving?’ She seemed disappointed. ‘Oh. Nothing wrong, is there?’
‘My father’s died.’
‘I’m sorry. Had he been ill?’
Temrai nodded. ‘I’d better be going as soon as I can.’
The hostel keeper laid down the spoon. ‘I expect your mother will be glad to see you,’ she said.
‘She died,’ Temrai replied. ‘When I was young.’
‘That’s sad. So you’ll be the head of the family now, I suppose.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Large family?’
‘Quite large. Sorry, but I really must be going. How much do I owe you?’
The woman shook her head. ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s only two days since last rent, have that on me. Would you like me to put you up something to eat for the journey?’
Temrai refused politely; she insisted; eventually, just to be able to get away, Temrai accepted half a loaf, a sausage and two apples. ‘It’s been nice having you here,’ she said, handing him a basket covered with a piece of clean sacking. ‘Make sure you come and see me if you’re ever in town again.’
‘I might be coming back,’ Temrai said. ‘Fairly soon.’
‘I’ll look forward to that. Have a safe trip.’
‘I will. Thanks for everything.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
Feeling like a murderer, Temrai gathered up his few bits and pieces in a bundle and managed to get out without talking to anybody else. Please, he prayed silently, be among the first to leave, when the dust clouds appear in the east and everyone starts to panic. I mean you no harm, really. It’s just-
‘Ready?’ Jurrai asked, handing him the reins of a tall, neat horse.
‘Ready,’ he replied.
‘I nearly forgot. You get what you came for?’
‘Yes.’
Jurrai chuckled. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Next time you see this lot, it’ll all be rather different.’
Temrai gritted his teeth. ‘Let’s hope so,’ he said.
They mounted up (strange, the sensation of sitting on a horse again, after all this time) and rode slowly through the streets, fearful for their horses’ legs among the ruts and cobbles. It was a rare sight to see mounted men in the city, and the evening promenaders were in no hurry to get out of the way and let them through. Temrai felt foolish and conspicuous, towering over his fellow citizens (no, no more of that) like some great nobleman taking part in a procession, his tall, fire-breathing plains stallion pawing and shaking his head with impatience behind a little, fat, bald baker and his circular wife, out for a leisurely stroll. They could have taken all night to reach the gate, except that the baker and his wife stopped to buy pancakes and let them through.
They were in sight of the gate when a man came out of a tavern, not looking where he was going, and walked directly in front of Temrai’s horse. He yanked the reins hard back and to the right, slewing the horse round; it was enough to save the fool drunkard from serious injury, but the toecap of Temrai’s boot (iron-capped, necessary precaution for workers in a place where there were all manner of heavy things waiting to fall and crush unshielded toes) slammed into the side of the man’s head, knocking him to the ground. Temrai cried out in alarm and slipped off the horse, throwing the reins to Jurrai.
‘Are you all right?’
The man rubbed his head. ‘No thanks to you,’ he grunted. ‘Why don’t you look where you’re damned well going?’
His voice was slurred, the edges rounded by a few too many drinks; just the condition, Temrai knew, that led to most of the fights in this city. He apologised, therefore, and helped the man to his feet, brushing mud and street muck off his coat and picking up the flat bundle the man had been holding. Unfortunately, the horse had trodden on it.
‘You clown,’ the man exclaimed, ‘look what you’ve done to my sign! Go on, just look at it!’
The light streaming from the tavern doorway revealed a smart new portrait, very impressive except for the horseshoe-sized hole where the man’s face should have been. Temrai noticed the man’s hand drop to his belt, where a sword would hang. Fortunately, there wasn’t one.
‘That’s terrible,’ Tamrai muttered. ‘I’m so sorry. Please, you must let me pay for the damage.’
‘Too bloody right I will,’ the man snarled back. ‘Not to mention loss of earnings, pain and suffering and careless handling of a horse on a public thoroughfare.’
That, Temrai felt, was a little excessive coming from a drunk who’d tried to walk under his horse; but the significance of the sign, the legal terminology, the instinctive hand to the belt, weren’t lost on him. Drunk or sober, right or wrong, he didn’t particularly want to find himself trading knife thrusts with a professional advocate. ‘Of course,’ he said hurriedly. ‘How much does that come to?’
The drunk was looking at him curiously, his sodden brain doing its best to interpret the promptings of some half-forgotten memory.
‘You,’ he said. ‘You’re the plains boy from the arsenal.’
‘That’s right,’ Temrai replied; and then his own memory found the right place. ‘I saw you there this afternoon. You came in and went out again.’
The man nodded, and with relief Temrai sensed that the moment of danger was over. A drunk might stab an offensive stranger in an outburst of drunken fury, but not an acquaintance. The man’s face relaxed into a sort of grin.
‘You’ve ruined my sign,’ he said. ‘Took me all day to get that bloody thing done. If you only knew how boring it is having yourself painted…’
‘I can imagine.’
The man shrugged. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll forget about the sign and all that stuff, if you’ll do me a favour. Agreed?’
Temrai hesitated. He was in no position to promise favours now that he was leaving the city; on the other hand, to refuse would undoubtedly infuriate the drunk and land Temrai in a worse mess than he’d been in before. ‘Um,’ he said.
‘Swordsmith, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Thought so.’ The man nodded slowly. ‘Swordsmith from the plains. You’ll know all about brazing edges to cores so they won’t snap, then.’
‘Yes,’ Temrai said. ‘How do-?’
‘Friend,’ the drunk said solemnly, ‘you could just be the man to save my life. See, I’m an advocate. Fencer-at-law. Or was, till today; giving it all up, going to be a trainer. Good life, training, ’cept for the getting up in the mornings. Anyway, still going to need a good sword that won’t bust on me in the middle of a fight. Two perfectly good swords I’ve had bust on me lately,’ he added bitterly, ‘and seen another go the same way, close to my face as you are.’ It was true that he was leaning up close; even with his limited experience, Temrai could identify two of the cheaper popular vintages on his breath. ‘And then I thought, those buggers out on the plains, they know how to make swords that don’t bust, or they did a dozen years back. So that’s what I want you to do for me, and we’ll say no more ’bout the busted sign. Deal?’
Temrai’s face was completely void of any expression, as was his voice when he replied, ‘Deal.’ The drunk didn’t seem to have noticed.
‘Good stuff,’ the drunk said, smiling, and he slapped Temrai mightily on the back. ‘Loredan’s my name, Bardas Loredan. Find me at the Schools any time. You ever want to learn fencing, do you a special deal.’
‘Thank you,’ said Temrai quietly. ‘Crossing swords with you would be a pleasure.’
The drunk was now full of good humour; he held Temrai’s stirrup for him as he mounted, and waved him cheerfully on his way before dumping the ruined sign in the gutter, turning round a couple of times as if uncertain of where he was going, and finally heading back into the tavern. Temrai rode on in stony silence until they were past the gatekeeper and on the bridge.