Tam sniffed. ‘I wasn’t invited. March is so pathetically crude one could almost laugh. Watch out for Immish agents and don’t eat anything someone else hasn’t eaten first. Keep alert to things. Signs and portents, since you seem so keen on them. Firewine drunks. Dreams. And do give March my regards.’ He pushed open the door and went out in a rustle of cloth. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
Hot, scented air, spices and lilac flowers. A fluttering of wings as a flock of ferfews darted overhead, flashing brilliant green wings. White stone gleamed in the moonlight. A woman laughing in a tinkle of bells.
Orhan walked quickly, his guards following him with drawn knives. Amlis, red and sandy; Sterne, dark-skinned and tall with vivid blue eyes. Amlis had obviously passed the time at the palace cajoling the kitchen maids: his breath smelled of raw onions and there was a grease stain on his shirt. House Emmereth. Such style. Such sophistication. Such beauty and elegance in a city of dreams.
He should probably change himself, really, put on something a bit more elaborate, wash off the dust. But he really couldn’t be bothered. The streets were full of dust anyway. He’d only get dirty again.
In the Court of the Fountain, two young men were fighting. A handful of spectators leaned against the wide marble bowl of the fountain, cheering on one or the other. A street seller wandered among them, holding out a tray of preserved lemons. Orhan stopped to watch. The spectators seemed to favour the taller of the two men: he was certainly the better looking, his skin smooth black, his hair deep gold, shining in the torchlight. His opponent was his opposite, fair skin and dark hair, shorter and stockier. Both were dressed in fine white silks. They were real street blades, then, not simply bored young men quarrelling. White was the colour men wore when they were serious about fighting. It showed up every scratch of the knife.
The dark-haired man made a powerful lunge and knocked the golden-haired man backwards. Blood gushed up from golden-hair’s right leg and the audience groaned. With a curse, he went down on one knee for a moment, then rallied and lashed out at dark-hair. Dark-hair skittered back out of reach, sending several spectators running. He was the stronger and technically the better fighter. Golden-hair had more grace and flair, a more elegant turn of his body. But golden-hair was more likely to die. Obviously limping now, his face pained.
Dark-hair lunged again and again golden-hair stumbled backwards. He was panting, sweating heavily. Those watching began to mutter. Disappointed. They obviously wanted golden-hair to win. Golden-hair stepped back several paces, trying to give himself room to recover and breathe. Dark-hair pressed forward, sensing his opponent’s weakness and growing fear. Knife blades crashed heavily into each other as the two men closed again. They grappled together for a long moment, then with a cry dark-hair broke backwards as golden-hair somehow managed to twist sideways and strike out hard with his left fist. A cheer rang out from the audience. Golden-hair seemed to rally at the sound and brought his knife down, slicing at dark-hair’s arm. The audience cheered again as dark-hair stumbled. Blood was streaming down from his elbow to his wrist and he struggled to raise his own blade. Grinning, golden-hair struck again. More blood spurted up, not just a scratch wound but brilliant inner blood. Heart blood. Dark-hair muttered something and retreated backwards, then roared desperately and flung himself at golden-hair. The audience shouted and clapped as the two tussled together, grunting, panting. Both filthy with blood and grime. There was blood on the ground, making the stone slippery. If either fell, it would be fatal. Not an elegant fight, now. They were too close even for knife work, they wrestled, trying to break the other’s grip and set him off balance. Their feet scuffled and sent up the dust.
Suddenly there was a roar and dark-hair reeled backwards, his face contorted in pain. Golden-hair leapt on him, his knife flashing, stabbing out and down. The blade bit home into the soft hollow in the throat where the pulse beats. Blood sprayed up. Dark-hair swayed on his feet, his face astonished. Crashed to the ground and lay still.
Golden-hair stood staring, as if he suspected a trick. A pool of blood began oozing out from under dark-hair’s body. Dead. Golden-hair panted deeply. Dropped his knife. It clattered onto the worn stones. He raised his hands in victory, turning to acknowledge the crowds around him. They clapped and cheered again. Golden-hair bowed elegantly, then walked off across the square. Another young man, also black-skinned and golden-haired, bent to retrieve his knife and then followed him.
Muttering. The audience began to disperse. Three men exchanged money between them, obviously settling bets. The sweet-seller jingled his tray enthusiastically; one man bought a bag of preserved lemons with his winnings and wandered off chewing, his lips puckered with the taste. They looked like good lemons. Orhan bought a bag and offered one to Amlis. The salt-and-sour might disguise the smell of onions. The rich golden yellow of their skins made him think of the victor’s hair.
Dark-hair lay in the dust by the fountain in a pool of black blood. Flies were beginning to settle on his body. Without really knowing why he was doing it, Orhan bent down and tucked a silver dhol inside the dead man’s shirt. The traditional reward for whatever scavenger removed the body. A dead man’s clothes and a silver piece, in exchange for digging a decent grave somewhere outside the city walls. Those who wore white out after dusk in the streets of Sorlost had no one left who would care to bury them for any reason beyond a coin.
‘He fought well,’ said Amlis. ‘He deserved to win.’ The bondsman prodded the slumped body with his foot, then swore under his breath as he realized he’d got blood on his shoe. ‘He should have won.’
Sterne shook his head. ‘The crowd was behind the other. He gave up believing he could win. Decided that his opponent was better, despite knowing it not to be true. He lost because the other was better looking.’
That’s absurdly melodramatic, Orhan thought. But the truth. He’d judged dark-hair the superior fighter, but he’d have bet on golden-hair even so.
‘Are we going on, now, then?’ Amlis asked.
Orhan thought for a moment. It was tempting just to return home and go to bed. He’d watched a half-decent fight and bought a bag of excellent preserved lemons. A good night, all told.