Logen sat down next to him. “Aren’t you looking forward to going home?”
“Home,” mumbled the apprentice listlessly.
“That’s right, the Old Empire… or wherever.”
“You don’t know what it’s like there.”
“You could tell me,” said Logen, hoping to hear something about the peaceful valleys, cities, rivers and whatnot.
“Bloody. It’s bloody there, and lawless, and life is cheap as dirt.”
Bloody and lawless. That all had an unpleasantly familiar smack to it. “Isn’t there an Emperor, or something?”
“There are many, always making war on one another, forging alliances that last a week, or a day, or an hour, before they scramble to be first to stab each other in the back. When one Emperor falls another rises, and another, and another, and meanwhile the hopeless and the dispossessed scavenge and loot and kill on the fringes. The cities dwindle, the great works of the past fall into ruin, the crops go unharvested and the people go hungry. Bloodshed and betrayal, hundreds of years of it. The feuds have become so deep, so complicated, that few can tell any longer who hates who, and no one can say why. There’s no need for reasons any more.”
Logen made one last effort. “You never know. Things might have got better.”
“Why?” muttered the apprentice. “Why?”
Logen was fumbling for a reply when one of the doors swung briskly open. Bayaz frowned around the room. “Where’s Maljinn?”
Quai swallowed. “She left.”
“I can see she left! I thought I told you to keep her here!”
“You didn’t tell me how,” muttered the apprentice.
His master ignored him. “What the hell has become of that bloody woman? We must be away by noon! Three days I’ve known her, and she already has me at the end of my rope!” He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. “Find her, will you Logen? Find her and bring her back.”
“What if she doesn’t want to come back?”
“I don’t know, pick her up and carry her! You can kick her all the way back here as far as I’m concerned!”
Easy to say, but Logen didn’t fancy trying it. Still, if it had to be done before they could leave, it was best done now. He sighed, got up from his chair and made for the door.
Logen pressed himself into the shadows by the wall, watching.
“Shit,” he whispered to himself. It would have to be now, just as they were about to leave. Ferro was twenty strides away, standing up tall with a deeper than usual scowl on her dark face. There were three men gathered round her. Masked men, all in black. Their sticks were down by their legs, behind their backs, kept half out of sight, but Logen had no doubt about what they had in mind. He could hear one of them talking, hissing through his mask, something about coming quietly. He winced. Coming quietly didn’t sound like Ferro’s style.
He wondered whether he should slip away and tell the others. He couldn’t really say he liked the woman much, not near enough to get his head broken for her. But if he left them to it, three against one, the chances were they’d have knocked her to pieces by the time he got back, however tough she was, and dragged her off to who knew where. He might never get out of this damn city then.
He started judging the distance, thinking about how best to go at them, weighing his chances, but he’d been too long doing nothing, and his mind moved slowly. He was still working on it when Ferro suddenly jumped on one of them, yelling at the top of her voice, knocking him on his back. She gave him a couple of vicious-looking punches in the face before the others caught hold of her and dragged her up.
“Shit,” hissed Logen. The three of them wrestled, lurching around in the lane, knocking against the walls, grunting and swearing, kicking and punching, a tangle of flailing limbs. It seemed that time had run out for a clever approach. Logen gritted his teeth and charged towards them.
The one on the floor had rolled to his feet, shaking the fuzz out of his head while the other two struggled to get a good grip on Ferro. Now he lifted his stick high, arching back, ready to smash her on the skull. Logen let go a roar. The masked face snapped round, surprised-looking.
“Huh?” Then Logen’s shoulder crunched into his ribs, lifting him off his feet and sending him sprawling. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone swing a stick at him, but he’d got them offguard and there was no real force behind it. He caught it across his arm then pressed in under it and smashed the man right in the mask with his fists, a full-blooded punch with each hand. He reeled back, arms flopping, already falling. Logen grabbed him by two fistfuls of his black coat, hauled him into the air and flung him upsidedown into the wall.
He bounced off with a gurgle and crumpled on the cobbles. Logen spun round, fists clenched, but the last one was lying on his face with Ferro on top of him, one knee jammed into his back, pulling his head up by the hair and smashing his face into the road, shouting meaningless curses all the while.
“What did you fucking do?” he shouted, grabbing her under the elbow and dragging her off.
She tore free of his grip and stood there panting, fists bunched up by her sides, blood leaking out of her nose. “Nothing,” she snarled.
Logen took a cautious step back. “Nothing? What’s this then?”
She bit off each word in her ugly accent and spat them at him. “I… don’t… know.” She wiped her bloody mouth with one hand, then froze. Logen glanced over his shoulder. Three more masked men, running at them down the narrow lane.
“Shit.”
“Move, pink!” Ferro turned and started running and Logen followed her. What else could he do? He ran. The horrible, breathless running of the hunted, shoulders prickling for a blow in the back, sucking in air in gasps, the slapping footfalls of the men behind echoing around him.
High white buildings flashed past on either side, windows, doors, statues, gardens. People too, shouting as they dived out of the way or flattening themselves against the walls. He had no idea where they were, no idea where they were going. A man stepped out of a doorway right in front of him, a big sheaf of papers in his arms. They crashed together, tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over in the gutter with papers flapping down all around them.
He tried to get up but his legs were burning. He couldn’t see! There was a piece of paper across his face. He tore it away, felt someone grab him under the arm and haul him along. “Up, pink!
“Move!” Ferro. She wasn’t even out of breath. Logen’s lungs were bursting as he struggled to keep up with her but she pulled steadily away, head down, feet flying.
She charged through an archway just ahead and Logen laboured after her, boots skidding as he turned the corner. A great shadowy space, timbers reaching up high above, like a strange forest of square beams. Where the hell were they? There was bright light just ahead, open air. He plunged out into it, blinking. Ferro was just beyond him, turning round slowly, breathing hard. They were in the middle of a circle of grass, a little circle.
He knew where they were now. The arena where he’d sat among the crowds, watching the sword-game. The empty benches stretched away all round. There were carpenters crawling amongst them, sawing and hammering. They’d already taken some of the benches to pieces near the back and the supports stuck up high into the air alone like giant rib bones. He put his hands on his wobbly knees and bent over, gasping for air, blowing spit out onto the ground.
“What… now?”
“This way.” Logen straightened up with an effort and wobbled after her, but she was already on her way back. “Not that way!”
Logen saw them. Black masked figures, again. The one at the front was a woman, tall with a shock of red hair sprouting off her head. She padded towards the circle silently on the balls of her feet, waved her arm behind her, pointing the other two out to the sides, trying to get on the flanks, surround him. Logen cast about, looking for a weapon, but there was nothing—just the empty benches and the high white walls beyond. Ferro was backing towards him, not ten feet away, and beyond her there were two more masks, creeping out around the enclosures with sticks in their hands. Five. Five altogether.