‘Why are the Watch seeking you?’ I asked him.
He chuckled. ‘You remember the bearded fellow at the balcony window? I paid court to his wife. A pretty young thing she is, full-breasted and never happier than when on her back, legs spread.’
‘I do not appreciate coarse language,’ I told him sternly, ‘especially when speaking of a lady.’
‘I shall bear that in mind, bard. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I met her in the marketplace. She was looking at some Prankish jewellery. I spoke to her and we struck up an instant friendship. One of the pleasures of life is striking up instant friendships with women. Anyway, I walked her to her home and noted, as a man will, that several large trees grew close to the south of the house, their branches touching the walls at many points. The house itself was stone built. Not exactly a palace, but there were many ornate carvings in the stone. That evening I climbed into the house and found my way to her room. Her husband was absent. I woke her and declared — as one must — my undying love for her, and enjoyed a fine night.’
‘You are in love with her?’
‘Did I say I was?’
‘That is what you told her.’
He smiled and leaned back in his chair. ‘I see you are not a man of the world, bard. Have you never slept with a woman?’
‘That is a singularly intrusive and impertinent question,’ I told him.
‘Then you have not. I see. Is it boys, then?’
‘It is not! How dare you?’
‘Oh, I am not criticizing, man. I was merely trying to ascertain your knowledge of affairs of the loins. There are rules, you see, governing all things. If you wish to bed a lady, you must first declare your love. If you wish to bed a peasant, you must first declare your wealth. You understand? Well, this one was a lady. So I told her I loved her.’
‘And she believed you?’
‘Of course. She wanted me in her bed — I knew that from the first moment in the marketplace.’
‘What happened?’ He sighed. ‘Women play by different rules. She decided she wanted to run away with me, to live in some distant place where we could walk naked among the flowers, or suchlike. In short she became boring. So I left her.’
‘And then?’It always happens. Her love turned to anger and she told her husband about me. It is partly my fault — I should not have taken all her jewellery. But I had gambling debts and, anyway, I think I earned some reward for the pleasure I gave her.’
‘You stole her jewels? What kind of a man are you?’
‘I thought we had decided that question. I am a thief.’
‘It sounds to me as if you broke her heart.’
‘I never touched her heart,’ he said, with a chuckle. He stood and walked to the window, gazing out over the city. ‘This will not last long,’ he whispered, his voice losing its lightness of tone.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ziraccu is finished. The war will come here. Siege-engines will sunder the walls, armed troops will rampage through the streets.’
‘But this is not a battlefield,’ I said.
‘The Ikenas have a new King. Edmund, the Hammer of the Highlands he calls himself. He says he will not rest until the northern kingdom is overcome. I believe he means it. And that will mean new rules of engagement.’
‘How so?’A lot more death, bard,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You can forget about set battles and ransomed knights. This Edmund believes in victory and he’ll not stop until all his enemies are wormfood. Mark my words. He’ll attack the cities and raze them. He’ll end the Angostin Wars once and for all. But I’ll not stay to see it. I have no wish to be trapped here like a rat in a pipe.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Somewhere where the women are warm and the gold is plentiful.’
‘I wonder if there is such a place,’ I said, forcing a smile, ‘But tell me, how did you know I received two gold coins reward?’
‘Bellin’s wife whispered it to me just after… but you don’t want to hear about that.’
‘His wife?’
‘Yes. Nice woman. Very open. But I’d love to have her and the daughter in the same bed. Now wouldn’t that be a pretty sight?’
‘No, it would not. And you are a disgraceful man.’
‘I try,’ he said, laughing aloud.
CHAPTER TWO
Jarek Mace received his reward from the innkeeper and, with a fine smile and a wave, walked away from the tavern. I felt a sense of loss at the time, and could not understand it. But life moved on. I stayed several days at the Six Owls, and even entertained the regulars on my last night.
They were common men and women and I did not bore them with the Dragon’s Egg, which is for the cultured. I gave them what they required — the Dancing Virgin. It is a simple piece of magick involving a silver tray which floats in the air while a girl, no taller than a man’s forearm, dances upon it, her body swathed in shimmering veils of silk.
It was not a great success, for there are many talented magickers who have debased the piece, introducing male partners and allowing them to simulate copulation. I could, of course, have duplicated such a scene — indeed, achieved a far more powerful display of the erotic. But I had always felt it wrong to pander to the lust of the mob. There were several coarse shouts during my performance which unsettled my concentration, but I continued and finished the display with a burst of white fire, a glowing ball that circled the room before exploding with a mighty bang.
Even after this the audience was apathetic in its applause, and I leapt from the table and walked to the long bar feeling somewhat depressed.
Few understand the emotional strain of magicking, the sense of fatigue and weariness of the soul that follows a performance. I drank heavily that night and it was very late when Bellin informed me that he would need my room for guests arriving the following day.
It seemed I had outstayed my welcome.
For the next few months I performed at several weddings and two funerals. I like funerals; I enjoy the solemnity and the tears. I do not mean to sound morbid, but there is something sweet and uplifting about grief. The tears of loved ones are more powerful than any epitaph on a man’s life. I have seen the funerals of great men, with many carriages following the hearse. Great speeches are made, but there are no tears. What kind of a life must it have been that no one cries for you? There is an eastern religion which claims that tears are the coins God accepts to allow a soul into heaven.
I greatly like that idea.
Man being what he is, of course, the eastern men pay people to cry for them at their funerals.
However, I digress. The months flowed by and I struggled to earn enough money to pay for my meagre requirements. The war was affecting everyone now. Food was in short supply and the prices rose. The Ikenas King, Edmund, had been true to his word. His army swept through the land like a forest fire, destroying towns and cities, crushing the armies of the north in several pitched battles, coming ever closer to Ziraccu.
There were tales of horror, of mutilation and torture. A nunnery, it was said, had been burnt to the ground, the Abbess crucified upon the main gates. Several noblemen captured at the Battle of Callen had been placed in iron cages on the castle walls, and left to die of cold and starvation.
The Count of Ziraccu, one Leonard of Capula, declared the city neutral and sent emissaries to Edmund. The emissaries were hanged, drawn and quartered. Left with no choice but to fight Leonard began hiring mercenaries to defend the walls, but no one believed they could resist the might of the southern Angostin army.
It was not a good time to be a bard. Few wanted to hear songs of ancient times, nor listen to the music of the harp. What they desired was to realize their capital and head for the ports, setting sail to the continent where the baying of the hounds of war would not carry.