He dressed, in a bright orange silk shirt with ruffles of lace around wrists and throat, and bright blue woollen leggings. He'd also bought a new snow leopard cloak, long down to his ankles, fine doe-leather and lined with snow leopard fur, or so he'd been told; although he doubted it. Still, it added a nice splash of white to set off the orange of his shirt. And would undoubtedly be warm on the road.
Saark draped a cord over his neck, settling a bright green pendant at his throat, and then buckled his rapier at his side. He drew the weapon, a blur flickering silver in the mirror, a stunning display of skill and accuracy; then he winced, slowly, and held his side. 'Ouch,' he muttered. 'Not there yet, lover. Not there yet.'
Leaving his old clothes in a pile for the tavern's serving girls to burn, Saark returned to his room and opened the door. Skanda was seated, on one of the narrow sparse beds, but his face was wide as if celebrating a rapturous applause, and something long, and brass, lay loose along his arm. Saark stepped inside and closed the door. He laid his cloak on a chair and moved to Skanda.
'What are you doing, boy?' he asked, voice low, words not unkind.
Skanda did not respond. His eyes were open, but there was no comprehension there. Saark's eyes travelled down to the brass object. It was old, very old and worn by its look, and quite ornate. Saark had seen similar objects in the houses of doctors when he'd had swordfight wounds stitched. It was a needle, a brass needle, used to inject fluids into the human body. This was affixed to Skanda's arm; or more precisely, his vein.
'Skanda,' breathed Saark and moved as if to remove the needle. There came a rapid clicking sound, and his eyes moved fast and he leapt back. The scorpion was there, twin tails raised in threat, pincers flexing as it watched Saark with its many tiny black eyes.
Saark released a hiss of breath. 'Damn disgusting little thing,' he snapped, and drew his sword, eyes narrowing. 'I'm going to cut you in two!' But then he understood the situation with a stab of insight. The scorpion was protecting its master.
How can that be? thought Saark. It's an insect! A poisonous little arachnid with no compassion or empathy for anything. Why would it protect the boy?
Slowly, Saark sheathed his sword and held out his hands. 'I was simply going to remove the needle and put the boy to bed. You know? Make him more comfortable?'
The scorpion surveyed him for a few moments, then lowered its stings and scuttled back within Skanda's loose clothing. Warily, Saark pulled free the needle with a tiny squirt of blood, and put it to one side. Then he lifted Skanda onto the bed and laid him out, covering him with a thin blanket. 'There you go,' he muttered, and thought back to his own childhood, his father hanging by the throat, his mother screaming, and the long, long, long weeks of being utterly and totally alone.
Saark's eyes shone with tears. 'I'll look after you, lad. You see if I don't,' he said.
Saark reckoned he created quite a stir when he walked into the smoky, crowded tavern. The crowd certainly parted to allow him passage, and he ignored the many stares as he crossed to Kell and seated himself opposite the axeman, back to the crowd.
'What,' said Kell, 'in the name of horse-shit, are you wearing?'
'I call it Orange Blossom in Winter. I think it's quite alluring. I think the ladies are noticing me.' He smiled a broad, happy smile.
'Mate, every bastard is noticing you, from the lowliest mongrel backstabbing thief to the dirtiest, sleaziest whore in the village. What the hell were you thinking, Saark?'
'I was thinking it's been awhile since I had some female company.'
'I thought you were over that?'
'Kell, my friend, you do not understand men, nor women. This is not something I want; this is something I need. I cannot control myself, no more than you control your… your swinging axe.'
'Saark, we are staying one night. What possessed you to dress like a peacock?'
'It is my way.'
'And you stink! Gods, it's like you've been showered with every tart's knicker-drawer lavender bottle in the country! You'll have the bastard albino soldiers on us in an instant if you step into the wilds of Falanor stinking like that.'
'You are so uncouth.'
'I thought you'd overcome all this crap? I thought we were on a mission?'
'What?' Saark looked incredulous. ' What? Overcome? You confuse, old horse. Indeed, there is nothing here for which to overcome, because this is a question of breeding, this is a question of sophistication, and this is an embodiment of culture – something intrinsic, not just learned. And, because I have been forced to endure your company and travel in extraneous hardship, just because I have been forced to sleep in shit, and eat shit, and listen to shit, does not mean I thus crave shit. No. You know I am used to the finer aspects of life, and despite this being a poor backward peasant village,' several of the men in the tavern scowled and muttered at these brash, arrogant and loudly delivered words, 'filled with dirty, low-born peasants whose only knowledge is how to feed pigs and kill chickens,' he laughed, a bright tinkling of crystal windchimes, 'that doesn't mean to say I have to denigrate myself to the lower echelons of a rude base society. Understand?'
'You're a horse's dick, Saark.'
'I rest my case.'
'Meaning?'
'When faced with superior intelligence, culture and argument, you instantly revert to the base gutter which spawned you. I do not blame you for low-born behaviour, Kell, in fact sometimes I am envious; how I wish I wasn't so beautiful, and charming, and irresistible to the ladies.' Saark took this moment to have a good look around, and although his eyes lingered on several buxom wenches, the sight of their moribund attire, cracked and broken fingernails and dowdy knifehacked hair made him turn back to Kell with a scowl and deep sigh. 'However. I am cursed thus, and so must make the most of my natural endowments, and indeed, the nature of my beast. And what a beast it is.'
'I'd forgotten,' said Kell.
'What do you mean, old horse?'
Kell bared his teeth, and drained his tankard. 'We've been through some battles, Saark lad, some hard shit, and you've proved yourself to be tougher than I anticipated. You're a good swordsman, with a strong arm and keen eye, and enough mental toughness to face any enemy.'
'But?'
'But the minute you touch any form of civilisation, you regress to the pig-headed sugar-mouthed hardcocked brainless stinking village fucking idiot I've always loathed.' Saark opened his mouth, as Kell hefted his axe and stood, stool scraping the straw-covered stone flags. 'And if I hear another sugar-coated pile of goat's bollocks from you, I'll carve my name on your arse.' Saark's mouth closed again, and Kell stalked through the crowded tavern and stepped out into the night.
'Really!' said Saark, and grinned, then winced as the stitches in his side pulled tight. He laughed, half in pain, half in joy at this simple touch of civility. He moved round the table, taking Kell's place with his back to the wall, and noticed with surprise that quite a few of the tavern's stocky peasant farmers were throwing him dark, menacing scowls. Saark waved cheerily, and they returned their dark glances and mutters to the bar, and flat ale.
'Now, what shall I do?' murmured Saark, and rubbed his chin. It was slightly pink from shaving, but by the gods it felt good to be rid of the stubble and dirt. He had groomed his moustache carefully, using a little oil supplied by Bess, the tavern master's daughter. The rest he had rubbed into his hands and smoothed through his long, dark curls. Saark knew he cut a tall, dashing, handsome figure. But after the beating by Myriam's men, resulting in a head like a sausagestuffed pig's stomach, he had been knocked temporarily out of the womanising game. But now… now most of the bruises and swelling were gone, and Saark understood the dark, smoky interior would hide any remaining blemishes. Like a cat, he was ready to play. Like a lust-fuelled bull, he was ready to charge! He grinned. Saark was back, baby, Saark was back!
His eyes wandered the room, and he drank his ale and ordered another, which he also downed. Several women looked at him, and smiled. Saark graded them silently, methodically, placing them in a mental hierarchy of whom he would bed first provided no finer lass entered the premises. Such was his confidence, and experience, it never occurred to Saark that a lady might turn him down. That was something which happened to other poor unfortunates.
So intent was Saark on scrutinising the women on display, like prime beef at a cattle market, that as he was
