As always, there were men and women in the crowd who regarded Caldason with contempt, if not plain hostility. It wasn’t uncommon for children to share their distaste and to show it.
‘How much longer before we get there, Ockley?’ Caldason wondered.
‘Not far now. Naturally we’re taking an indirect route.’
‘Can’t we move a bit faster?’
‘We’re to do nothing that might attract attention to ourselves,’ their guide replied sternly. ‘I would have thought you of all people could understand that.’
Reeth and Kutch slowed and fell back a few paces. They conversed under their breath.
‘Jolly soul, isn’t he?’ Kutch reckoned.
‘I can see the need for caution, but this endless dawdling isn’t to my taste.’
‘You’re not very fond of cities, are you?’
‘Not greatly. Such places are cut off from nature, and that goes against the way my people see things. And cities have the biggest concentration of magic.’
‘I think that’s one reason I’m starting to like it here. Anyway, there’s no contradiction between magic and nature. Magic’s
part
of nature.’
‘I don’t dispute that. It’s the use it’s put to I don’t like.’
A passer-by stared rudely at Caldason. He returned the gaze levelly and the man looked away.
‘Aren’t you excited about meeting another Qalochian? I mean that woman the patrician told us about.’
‘Would you be excited about meeting another sorcerer’s apprentice?’
‘Well, interested might be a better word.’
‘That’s more or less how I feel.’
‘But I’m excited about meeting Phoenix. Aren’t you?’
Caldason didn’t answer.
They carried on without talking, watching Ockley’s back. Then he stopped abruptly by a wooden building whose side was covered in handbills.
When they caught up, Reeth said, ‘What is it?’
Ockley nodded at the mass of posters. They announced events, advertised goods, denounced and championed causes, pleaded for lost things and people. Layers were plastered over each other, with the older flyers peeling and in places defaced. One of the newer posters, still smooth and unruffled, read:
WANTED
Felon. Traitor. Outlaw At Large
A substantial reward is offered for the apprehension of Qalochian Reeth Caldason, murderer, agitator and disturber of the peace.
It is the duty of any citizen knowing the whereabouts of the said Caldason, or having knowledge of his activities, to report to the authorities without delay.
Warning is hereby served
that any found wilfully harbouring the fugitive face punishment as laid down in law. Contact your local watch-house or paladin garrison.
By Royal Proclamation
Underneath, there was a glamoured, three-dimensional representation of Caldason. The picture showed someone older, heavier and fully bearded.
‘It’s nothing like you!’ Kutch exclaimed.
Caldason shushed him. ‘I’ve seen few that were. Maybe because I’ve managed to avoid having my actual likeness taken. These things are always an approximation.’
‘There’s little chance of you being identified from that,’ Ockley agreed. ‘But it’s freshly pasted, and that underlines the importance of us proceeding with caution.’
Kutch started scraping at the poster’s upper edge with his fingernails, trying to tear it down.
‘Leave it,’ Caldason said, ‘it won’t be the only one.’
‘Come,’ Ockley instructed them curtly.
Yes, sir
, Kutch mouthed behind his back, pulling a sour face.
They resumed their journey.
Ockley insisted on maintaining his serpentine route. It took them through crowded squares, roads lined with merchants’ stalls and noisome cobbled lanes. They came to a narrow street where the buildings had jutting upper storeys and a virtual sewer flowed underfoot.
Somebody threw a pail of slops from a window above, barely missing them.
Gales of laughter and hoots of derision came from across the way. A group of drunks were tumbling from an inn. One staggered a few paces to relieve himself against a wall. The others shouted abuse at Caldason and his party, their insults centring on his race. He stopped and stared at them. The jeers increased in volume and spite.
‘Come along,’ Ockley sniffed like a prissy school marm, ‘ignore them.’
Caldason didn’t move.
The two most vociferous of the drunks stood out from the rest. They were worlds apart in appearance. One was a weasel of a man with shifty eyes and bad skin. The other was melon-headed and built like a mountain. But muscular, not fat.
Passers-by were taking an interest now.
‘We don’t need this attention,’ Ockley hissed.
‘Qaloch shit!’
the weaselly man yelled.
His huge friend, indicating Kutch, shouted, ‘Your butt boy, is he?’ Bending over, he pointed to his own enormous rear.
The drunks roared.
Caldason stepped into the road.
‘Reeth!’
Kutch begged. ‘Leave it. It doesn’t matter.’
He paid no heed and walked slowly towards the mob. To a chorus of catcalls and urgings from their cronies, weasel and the man-mountain moved to meet him.
They came face to face on the boardwalk outside the inn. The other drunks seemed content, so far, to simply watch and voice their mockery.
Weasel man, wiry and street-wise, took the lead. ‘Got something you want to say to us, trash?’
Caldason gave him a benevolent smile. ‘Nothing you’re bright enough to understand, my friend.’
‘Yeah? Well you ain’t no friend of mine. You’re a fucking Qalochian bastard. Understand
that
?’
‘Ah, but there’s one difference between you and me. I’m proud to be a Qalochian and I’d never change it even if I could. You, on the other hand, can’t do anything about that broken jaw.’
Weasel-face looked puzzled. ‘What broken jaw?’
Reeth’s left hand shot out and grasped the man’s throat. A powerful tug brought him straight into the Qalochian’s flying right fist. The crack was audible. Weasel gave an agonised snort, hands to chin, eyes screwed up in pain.
‘That one,’ Caldason said.
It happened so quickly nobody had time to react. Now the other drunks fell silent, smirks frozen. Weasel sank to his knees, groaning.
Man-mountain looked down at his stricken companion, then over to Caldason, fury lighting his dim eyes. ‘You’re gonna regret that, you Qalochian scumbag,’ he rumbled.
Caldason still wore his agreeable smile. ‘Make me, lard barrel.’
The mountain seethed. Veins in his bull neck stood out like knotted rope. ‘You better get ready to use them fancy swords, little man. Not that they’ll do you any good.’ He was bunching his rock-sized fists.
‘I don’t think I’ll bother. Not with you so outclassed already.’
Any restraint snapped. The man-mountain bellowed and lumbered at Reeth, swinging his fists as he came. Sliding out of his path, Reeth swiftly turned and delivered a doublehanded blow to the mountain’s side. It felt like hitting granite. His opponent looked more annoyed than hurt.
Caldason ducked as one of the ham fists soared his way. He went under it and in, pounding the man’s belly with a series of deep, weighty jabs. That had more of an effect, but not much. The mountain lunged, tree trunk arms spread wide, trying for a bear-hug. Reeth backed off fast and escaped it.
Moving with more speed than Reeth would have credited, the mountain threw another punch, and this one connected. The blow glanced off the side of Caldason’s head. He was fortunate not to take the full impact; the partial hit was almost heavy enough to down him.
He went straight in for a counter-attack. Aiming high and hard he got in a series of punches to the jaw. Right fist, left, then right again. Now the mountain staggered, blinking watery eyes, footing unsure. His guard was a sham. Caldason stooped and punched beneath it, pummelling the man’s stomach again. Then he quickly pulled back, avoiding a reprisal swipe.