The Magus chuckled. “Soldiers.”
Logen stared at them—filthy, coughing, limping, some without boots. “Soldiers? These?”
“Oh yes. They go to fight Bethod.”
Logen rubbed at his temples. “A clan once sent their poorest warrior, a man called Forley the Weakest, to fight me in a duel. They meant it by way of surrender. Why does this Union send their weakest?” Logen shook his head grimly. “They won’t beat Bethod with such as these.”
“They will send others.” Bayaz pointed out another, smaller gathering. “Those are soldiers too.”
“Those?” A group of tall youths, dressed in gaudy suits of red or bright green cloth, a couple with outsize hats. They were at least wearing swords, of a kind, but they hardly looked like fighting men. Fighting women, maybe. Logen frowned, staring from one group to the other. The dirty beggars, the gaudy lads. It was hard for him to say which were the stranger.
A tiny bell jingled as the door opened, and Logen followed Bayaz through the low archway, Malacus behind him. The shop was dim after the bright street and it took Logen’s eyes a moment to adjust. Leaning against a wall were sheets of wood, childishly daubed with pictures of buildings, forests, mountains. Strange clothes were draped over stands beside them—flowing robes, lurid gowns, suits of armour, enormous hats and helmets, rings and jewellery, even a heavy crown. Weapons occupied a small rack, swords and spears richly decorated. Logen stepped closer, frowning. They were fakes. Nothing was real. The weapons were painted wood, the crown was made of flaking tin, the jewels were coloured glass.
“What is this place?”
Bayaz was casting an eye over the robes by the wall. “A theatrical outfitters.”
“A what?”
“The people of this city love spectacle. Comedy, drama, theatre of all kinds. This shop provides equipment for the mounting of plays.”
“Stories?” Logen poked at a wooden sword. “Some people have too much time on their hands.”
A small, plump man emerged from a door at the back of the shop, looking Bayaz, Malacus and Logen over suspiciously. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
“Of course.” Bayaz stepped forward, switching effortlessly to the common tongue. “We are mounting a production, and require some costumes. We understand you are the foremost theatrical outfitter’s in all of Adua.”
The shopkeeper smiled nervously, taking in their grimy faces and travel stained clothes. “True, true, but… er… quality is expensive, gentlemen.”
“Money is no object.” Bayaz took out a bulging purse and tossed it absently on the counter. It sagged open, heavy golden coins scattering across the wood.
The shopkeeper’s eyes lit with an inner fire. “Of course! What precisely did you have in mind?”
“I need a magnificent robe, suitable for a Magus, or a great sorcerer, or some such. Something of the arcane about it, certainly. Then we’ll have something similar, if less impressive, for an apprentice. Finally we need something for a mighty warrior, a prince of the distant North. Something with fur, I imagine.”
“Those should be straightforward. I will see what we have.” The shopkeeper disappeared through the door behind the counter.
“What is all this shit?” asked Logen.
The wizard grinned. “People are born to their station here. They have commoners, to fight, and farm the land, and do the work. They have gentry, to trade, and build and do the thinking. They have nobility, to own the land and push the others around. They have royalty…” Bayaz glanced at the tin crown “…I forget exactly why. In the North you can rise as high as your merits will take you. Only look at our mutual friend, Bethod. Not so here. A man is born in his place and is expected to stay there. We must seem to be from a high place indeed, if we are to be taken seriously. Dressed as we are we wouldn’t get past the gates of the Agriont.”
The shopkeeper interrupted him by reappearing through the door, his arms heaped with bright cloth. “One mystical robe, suitable for the most powerful of wizards! Used last year for a Juvens in a production of
Malacus ran a hand over the shining cloth of his own absurd garment. “I don’t think you’d have laughed me off so quickly, eh, Logen, if I’d arrived at your campfire dressed in this?”
Logen winced. “I reckon I might’ve.”
“And here we have a splendid piece of barbarian garb.” The shopkeeper hefted a black leather tunic onto the counter, set with swirls of shiny brass, trimmed with pointless tissues of delicate chain-mail. He pointed at the matching fur cloak. “This is real sable!” It was a ludicrous piece of clothing, equally useless for warmth or protection.
Logen folded his arms across his old coat. “You think I’m going to wear that?”
The shopkeeper swallowed nervously. “You must forgive my friend,” said Bayaz. “He is an actor after the new fashion. He believes in losing himself entirely in his role.”
“Is that so?” squeaked the man, looking Logen up and down. “Northmen are… I suppose… topical.”
“Absolutely. I do declare, Master Ninefingers is the very best at what he does.” The old wizard nudged Logen in the ribs. “The very best. I have seen it.”
“If you say so.” The shopkeeper looked far from convinced. “Might I enquire what you will be staging?”
“Oh, it’s a new piece.” Bayaz tapped the side of his bald head with a finger. “I am still working on the details.”
“Really?”
“Indeed. More a scene than an entire play.” He glanced back at the robe, admiring the way the light glittered on the arcane symbols. “A scene in which Bayaz, the First of the Magi, finally takes up his seat on the Closed Council.”
“Ah,” the shopkeeper nodded knowingly. “A political piece. A biting satire, perhaps? Will it be comic, or dramatic in tone?”
Bayaz glanced sidelong at Logen. “That remains to be seen.”
Barbarians at the Gate
Jezal flashed along the lane beside the moat, feet pounding on the worn cobblestones, the great white wall sliding endlessly by on his right, one tower after another, as he made his daily circuit of the Agriont. Since he had cut down on the drinking the improvement in his stamina had been impressive. He was scarcely even out of breath. It was early and the streets of the city were nearly empty. The odd person would look up at him as he ran by, maybe even call out some word of encouragement, but Jezal barely noticed them. His eyes were fixed on the sparkling, lapping water in the moat, and his mind was elsewhere.
Ardee. Where else was it ever? He had supposed, after that day when West had warned him off, after he had stopped seeing her, that his thoughts would soon return to other matters, and other women. He had applied himself to his fencing with a will, attempted to show an interest in his duties as an officer, but he found himself unable to concentrate, and other women seemed now pale, flat, tedious creatures. The long runs, the monotonous exercises with bar and beam, gave his mind ample opportunity to wander. The tedium of peacetime soldiering was even worse: reading boring papers, standing guard on things that needed no guarding. His attention would inevitably slip, and then she would be there.
Ardee in wholesome peasant garb, flushed and sweaty from hard work in the fields. Ardee in the finery of a princess, glittering with jewels. Ardee bathing in forest pools, while he watched from the bushes. Ardee proper and demure, glancing shyly up at him from beneath her lashes. Ardee a whore by the docks, beckoning to him from a grimy doorway. The fantasies were infinite in variety, but they all ended the same way.
His hour-long circuit of the Agriont was complete and he thumped across the bridge and back in through the south gate.
