wearily.
“Thank you, but no,” he told her.
“I can get you opiates, if you desire them?”
“No,” he said, more sternly, and moved on. Three bearded men pushed themselves to their feet and walked in front of him. “A gift for the poor, my lord?” asked the first.
Druss was about to reply when he glimpsed the man to his left edge his hand into the folds of a filthy shirt. He chuckled. “If that hand comes out with a knife in it - I’ll make you eat it, little man.” The beggar froze.
“You shouldn’t be coming here with threats,” said the first man. “Not unarmed as you are. It’s not wise, my lord.” Reaching behind his back, he drew a long-bladed dagger.
As the blade appeared Druss stepped forward and casually backhanded the man across the mouth. The robber cartwheeled to the left, scattering a group of watching whores and colliding with a wall of brick. He moaned once, then lay still. Ignoring the other two beggars, Druss strode to the nearest tavern and stepped inside.
The interior was windowless and high-ceilinged, lit by lanterns which hung from the beams. The tavern smelt of burning oil and stale sweat. It was crowded, and Druss eased his way to a long trestle table on which several barrels of ale were set. And old man in a greasy apron approached him. “You don’t want to be drinking before the bouts begin; it’ll fill you with wind,” he warned.
“What bouts?”
The man looked at him appraisingly, and his glittering eyes held no hint of warmth. “You wouldn’t be trying to fool Old Thorn, would you?”
“I’m a stranger here,” said Druss. “Now, what bouts?”
“Follow me, lad,” said Thorn, and he pushed his way through the crowd towards the back of the tavern and on through a narrow doorway. Druss followed him and found himself standing in a rectangular warehouse where a wide circle of sand had been roped off at the centre. By the far walls were a group of athletes, moving through a series of exercises to loosen the muscles of shoulders and back.
“You ever fought?”
“Not for money.”
Thorn nodded, then reached out and lifted Druss’s hand. “A good size, and flat knuckles. But are you fast, boy?”
“What is the prize?” countered the young man.
“It won’t work that way - not for you. This is a standard contest and all the entrants are nominated well in advance so that sporting gentlemen can have opportunities to judge the quality of the fighter. But just before the start of the competition there’ll be offers to men in the crowd to earn a few pennies by taking on various champions. A golden raq, for example, to the man who can stay on his feet for one turn of the sandglass. They do it to allow the fighters to warm up against low-quality opposition.”
“How long is one turn?” asked Druss.
“About as long as it’s been since you first walked into the Blind Corsair.”
“And what if a man won?”
“It doesn’t happen, lad. But if it did, then he’d take the loser’s place in the main event. No, the main money is made on wagers among the crowd. How much coin are you carrying?”
“You ask a lot of questions, old man.”
“Pah! I’m not a robber, lad. Used to be, but then I got old and slow. Now I live on my wits. You look like a man who could stand up for himself. At first I mistook you for Grassin the Lentrian - that’s him over there, by the far door.” Druss followed the old man’s pointing finger and saw a powerfully built young man with short-cropped black hair. He was talking to another heavily-muscled man, a blond warrior with a dangling moustache. “The other one is Skatha, he is a Naashanite sailor. And the big fellow at the back is Borcha. He’ll win tonight. No question. Deadly, he is. Most likely someone will be crippled by him before the evening is out.”
Druss gazed at the man and felt the hackles on his neck rise. Borcha was enormous, standing some seven inches above six feet tall. He was bald, his head vaguely pointed as if his skin was stretched over a Vagrian helm. His shoulders were massively muscled, his neck huge with muscles swollen and bulging.
“No good looking at him like that, boy. He’s too good for you. Trust me on that. He’s skilled and very fast. He won’t even step up for the warming bouts. No one would face him - not even for twenty golden raq. But that Grassin now, I think you could stand against him for a turn of the glass. And if you’ve some coin to wager, I’ll find takers.”
“What do you get, old man?”
“Half of what we make.”
“What odds could you bargain for?”
“Two to one. Maybe three.”
“And if I went against Borcha?”
“Put it from your mind, boy. We want to make money - not coffin fuel.”
“How much?” persisted Druss.
“Ten to one - twenty to one. The gods alone know!”
Druss opened the pouch at his side, removing ten silver pieces. Casually he dropped them into the old man’s outstretched hand. “Let it be known that I wish to stand against Borcha for a turn of the glass.”
“Asia’s tits, he’ll kill you.”
