Sieben smiled. “You are quite right, old horse. So how shall we play this little game?”
An hour before dusk Collan sat in an upper room overlooking the quay. The bearded Kotis stood beside him. “Is everyone in place?” asked the Drenai swordsman.
“Aye. Two crossbowmen, and six knife-fighters. Is Borcha coming?”
Collan’s handsome face darkened. “No.”
“He would make a difference,” observed Kotis.
“Why?” snapped Collan. “He’s already taken one beating from the peasant!”
“You really think he will come alone and unarmed?”
“Bodasen believes he will.”
“Gods, what a fool!”
Collan laughed. “The world is full of fools, Kotis. That is how we grow rich.” He leaned out of the window and gazed down on the quayside. Several whores were lounging in doorways, and two beggars were accosting passers-by. A drunken dock-worker staggered from a tavern, collided with a wall and slid to the ground by a mooring post. He tried to rise, but as he lifted his work-sack he fell back, and then curled up on the stone and went to sleep. What a city, thought Collan! What a wonderful city. A whore moved to the sleeping man and dipped her fingers expertly into his money-pouch.
Collan stepped back from the window and drew his sabre. Taking a whetstone, he sharpened the edge. He had no intention of facing the peasant, but a man could never be too careful.
Kotis poured a goblet of cheap wine. “Don’t drink too much of that,” warned Collan. “Even unarmed, the man can fight.”
“He won’t fight so well with a crossbow bolt through the heart.”
Collan sat down in a padded leather chair and stretched out his long legs. “In a few days we’ll be rich, Kotis. Ventrian gold - enough to fill this squalid room. Then we’ll sail to Naashan and buy a palace. Maybe more than one.”
“You think the pirates will aid Ventria?” asked Kotis.
“No, they’ve already taken Naashanite gold. Ventria is finished.”
“Then we keep Bodasen’s money?”
“Of course. As I said, the world is full of fools. You know, I used to be one of them. I had dreams, I wasted half my life on them. Chivalry, gallantry. My father fed me the concepts until my mind was awash with dreams of knighthood and I truly believed it all.” Collan chuckled. “Incredible! But I learnt the error of my ways. I become wise to the way of the world.”
“You are in good humour today,” observed Kotis.
“You’ll have to kill Bodasen too. He won’t be pleased when he learns he’s been tricked.”
“Him I’ll fight,” said Collan. “Ventrians! A pox on them! They think they’re better than everyone else. Bodasen more than most; he thinks he’s a swordsman. We’ll see. I’ll cut him a piece at a time, a nick here and a slash there. He’ll suffer well enough. I’ll break his pride before I kill him.”
“He may be better than you,” ventured Kotis.
“No one is better than me, with sabre or short blade.”
“They say Shadak is one of the best who ever lived.”
“Shadak is an old man!” stormed Collan, surging to his feet, “and even at his best he could not have faced me.”
Kotis paled and began to stammer out an apology. “Be silent!” snapped Collan. “Get outside and check that the men are in position.”
As Kotis backed from the room, Collan poured himself a goblet of wine and sat down by the window. Shadak! Always Shadak. What was it about the man that inspired men to revere him? What had he ever done? Shema’s balls, I’ve killed twice as many swordsmen as the old man! But do they sing songs about Collan? No..
One day I’ll hunt him out, he promised himself. Somewhere in public view, where men can see the great Shadak humbled. He glanced out of the window. The sun was setting, turning the sea to fire.
Soon the peasant would arrive. Soon the enjoyment would begin.
Druss approached the quayside. There was a ship moored at the far end; dock-workers were untying the mooring ropes and hurling them to the decks, while aloft sailors were unfurling the great square of the main-mast. Gulls swooped above the vessel, their wings silver in the moonlight.
The young warrior glanced along the quayside, which was almost deserted save for two whores and a sleeping man. He scanned the buildings, but all the windows were closed. He could taste fear in his mouth, not for his own safety but for Rowena’s should Collan kill him. A life of slavery beckoned for her, and Druss could not bear that.
The wounds above his eyes were stinging, and a dull, thudding headache reminded him of the bout with Borcha. He hawked and spat, then made for the quay. From the shadows to his right a man moved.
“Druss!” came a low voice. He stopped and turned his head to see Old Thorn standing just inside the mouth of a dark alleyway.
“What do you want?” asked Druss.
“They’re waiting for you, lad. There’s nine of them. Go back!”
“I cannot. They have my wife.”
