He drew it.
The giant stepped away from the Morean lady and examined him with the kind of rigour usually given by the magisters to a corpse they were dissecting, when the religious authorities allowed such a thing.
‘You seem to know how to draw that,’ said the giant.
Mortirmir shrugged. ‘Leave the lady alone,’ he said.
The taverna had fallen silent. Every eye was on him, and he felt a fool – the more so as the giant was a head taller than he and would probably have his guts for garters, and he knew – with bitter remonstrance – that he was too stubborn to back down now.
‘Whore,’ said the giant. He shrugged. ‘If you want to fight me – I like a fight. Outside, though. Inside, we’ll be arrested.’
Mortirmir had never been called a whore before, but he knew it meant a fight. He wasn’t walking too well, but the jolt of pure spirit that came to him as he rounded the table steadied him. With his left hand he reached ino his purse and scattered coins on the table – any gentleman would do as much.
That jolt of the spirit – was it fear? It was like the levin-power that the natural philosophy magisters produced out of the metal globes, and his fingers tingled.
The giant backed steadily away from him. ‘Put the sword away, and we’ll have a proper fight,’ he said. ‘If you insist on using it I’ll probably kill you. She’s a whore, younker. Wake up.’
Mortirmir had the sense, just, to slide the sword back into the scabbard, and he did it without much fumbling. He felt as if the giant nodded at him in approval. He looked back and saw that the Morean lady was scooping his coins off the table.
He took his time out in the yard, unbuckling his sword belt. The giant was huge. He sounded like a Nordikan, the foreigners that the Emperor kept for his bodyguard.
Dozens of men poured out of the taverna’s open doors into the hot summer night, and a few women with them. The giant pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a body that seemed to be composed of sharply angled slabs of flesh-coloured rock. He had muscles on top of his muscles.
Mortirmir was wearing his best jupon, and he took it off carefully, folded it, and wished he had a friend to hold his purse. He wished, in fact, that he had a friend at all.
‘I just want so say you’re a brave little shit to take me on, and I intend to make you look good before I put you down,’ the giant said. ‘And you need to know that she’s a prostitute, and even now she’s watching your purse like a drunk watches a new vase of wine.’ His Archaic had a strange accent. ‘I like her – she’s my favourite.’ The huge man shrugged. ‘I’d even share her with you if we were sword brothers.’
Mortirmir laughed. It was insane, but he was suddenly released. He was happy. His laugh rang out, and men betting in the doorway listened and bets changed a little – not much, but a little. He wanted death – no suicide required.
‘I’m ready,’ he said.
The big man bowed. ‘Harald Derkensun,’ he said. ‘Of the Guard.’
Mortirmir returned the bow. ‘Morgan Mortirmir,’ he said. ‘Of the University.’
At that, men in the crowd roared. The Academy was loved and hated in the city – a bastion of brilliance and a nest of heretics, all in one.
Mortirmir was not untrained. He began to move on his toes as his father’s master-at-arms had taught him, and, with nothing to lose, his first attack was all-out. He stepped forward in mock hesitancy and kicked – hard – at his opponent’s knee.
He connected – not with the giant’s knee, but lower, and the giant hopped, off balance, and Morgan moved in, suddenly sober enough to do this, and landed a strong right with a right foot lunge, actually rocking the giant back half a step when he connected with the man’s gut.
Mortirmir felt as if he’d punched a barn. But he changed feet and tried another kick-
And had to pick himself out of the manure heap. He’d missed the move that flung him a body length across the torchlit night, but while he was more odiferous for his fall he was uninjured, and he bounced back at his opponent, who seemed to be made of iron.
‘That’s one fall,’ said the giant. ‘Good kick. Very good, really.’ The huge man grinned. ‘In fact, I think we’re going to have real fun. I thought I’d have to do both sides of this fight, but apparently-’
Mortirmir was thin and stringy, and his only real physical advantage was that his arms and legs were abnormally long. While the giant rattled on, he feinted another cross-body punch and kicked under it – caught the giant’s arm as it shot forward defensively-
It was a near-perfect arm-lock . . . right until he was flying through the air again. This time, his buttocks hit the stable wall before he slid into the manure heap.
The pain was intense, and the laughter of the crowd lit him up like a lantern. He rolled off the manure, and ran at the big man.
Derkensun waited for him with stoic resignation, obviously disappointed with his adolescent rage. But just as he entered the giant’s measure, Mortirmir swayed his hips, trusting to wine and luck, and then planted his foot and passed under the Nordikan’s fight-ending blow, planted his leg firmly behind the bigger man’s knee, put his head under the man’s arm and threw him to the ground. It took an incredible wrenching of his body to do it – it was like throwing a house.
But Derkensun crashed to earth.
He was only there long enough to shout something, and then he rolled heels over head faster than such a big man had any right to do, and he was on his feet, rubbing his left shoulder. He grinned from ear to ear. ‘Well struck, younker!’ he roared. His left leg shot out and Mortirmir jumped it – more by luck than training.
Mortirmir was breathing like a bull. The giant was smiling.
‘I guess that’s not going to work again,’ muttered Mortirmir.
The giant shook his head.
Mortirmir grinned. The sense of release was wonderful – the physical exhilaration was a novelty. And the lightness of heart couldn’t all be wine.
He stepped forward intending to feint a head punch, but he never got there. As soon as his weight shifted he was on the ground, gasping, and his back hurt.
The pain flowed into something in his head, and he rolled to his feet and grappled, perhaps the stupidest thing he could have done. The man was so large that he simply bent Mortirmir’s hands back until he freed them of their lock, and then crossed his hands involuntarily. The ease of the giant’s victory angered Mortirmir further, and he changed his stance and put his knee – quite viciously – into the other man’s balls.
The Nordikan stumbled back, and Mortirmir kicked him hard in the middle of the gut – the man folded at the waist, and Mortirmir’s right hand shot out-
The giant took it in one great paw, rolled to his left and threw the student like a trebuchet throws a stone.
Mortirmir hit the inn wall. He had time to think that he was surprised at the colour of the whole thing, and had to tell the magisters, and then . . .
‘Damn Christ, you hurt me!’ said a scratchy deep voice by his ear. ‘But I never meant to hurt you so badly.’ He felt something cold touch his head, and it hurt. But everything hurt.
‘You are a very great fool,’ purred a woman’s voice.
‘You’re a big help,’ said the scratchy voice.
‘We could at least split his money. It is many months since you have been paid.’
‘That would be dishonourable, and I would never do such a thing. Besides, when he recovers, we will be great friends. The witch woman has told me this.’ The scratchy voice chuckled. ‘If I didn’t kill him. She said I might kill him. I tried to be careful, and then he hurt me and I lost it, as usual.’
Mortirmir tested his body, as if he was an experiment in school. His left leg moved, his left knee was full of pain, his right leg moved, his left arm moved, his left hand moved – his right hand and arm hurt like-