Where had the servants gone? And why had Malikada not gathered more?
Clothing himself in a fresh tunic and leggings he sat down and, out of habit, polished his breastplate, helm and greaves, which he then hung on a wooden frame. The room began to grow cold. Antikas strode to the window, but it was tightly shut. He thought of lighting a fire, but hunger was gnawing at him. The temperature dropped even further. Antikas swung his sword belt around his waist and left the room. The corridor was infinitely warmer. How curious, he thought.
Behind him, within the room, the water in his washing bowl froze, and ice patterns formed on the windows.
Leaving the palace he crossed the Avenue of Kings. Canta’s Tavern was but a short walk, and the food there was always good.
When he arrived he found the doors locked, but he could hear signs of movement within. Angry now he hammered his fist on the wood. All movement inside
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ceased. ‘Open up, Canta! There is a hungry man out here,’ he called.
He heard the bolts being drawn back. The door swung open. Within were two men. One, the owner, Canta, a short, fat, balding man with a heavy black moustache, had a kitchen knife in his hand, the other man was holding a hatchet. ‘Come in quickly,’ said Canta. Antikas stepped inside. They slammed shut the door and bolted it.
‘What are you afraid of?’ asked Antikas. The men looked at one another.
‘How long have you been back in the city?’ asked Canta.
‘I just rode in.’
There have been riots,’ said the tavern keeper, dropping his knife to a table and slumping down. ‘Riots like you’ve never seen. People hacking and stabbing their neighbours. Last night the baker murdered his wife and ran along the street with her head in his hands. I saw it with my own eyes, Antikas, through the window slats. There is madness everywhere. Tomorrow I’m getting out.’
‘And what of the Militia?’ asked Antikas.
‘They’re out there with them, burning and looting. I tell you, Antikas, it beggars belief. By day everything is quiet, but when the sun goes down the nightmare begins again. There is a great evil at work here. I feel it in my bones.’
Antikas rubbed his weary eyes. ‘The army is back now. They will restore order.’
‘The army is camped a mile from the city,’ said the other man, a stocky figure with a greying beard. ‘The city is defenceless.’
The tavern was gloomy and dark, lit only by a fading log fire in the hearth. ‘Do you have any food?’ asked Antikas. ‘I have not eaten since yesterday.’
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Canta nodded and moved away to the kitchen. The other man sat opposite the swordsman. ‘There is sorcery here,’ he said. ‘I think the city is dying.’
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Antikas.
‘You haven’t seen it, man. Outside. After dark. I have. I’ll not forget it. The mob becomes possessed. You can see it in their eyes.’
‘That is the way with mobs,’ said Antikas.
‘Maybe it is, soldier. But yesterday . . .’ his voice tailed away. The man rose and walked away to the fire, slumping down beside it and staring into the flames. Canta returned with a plate of cold beef and cheese and a jug of watered wine.
‘It is the best I can offer,’ said Canta. Antikas reached for his money pouch. ‘Don’t concern yourself with that,’ said Canta. Take it as a gift.’
The sound of sobbing came from the hearth. Antikas looked at the weeping man with distaste. Canta leaned in close. ‘Last night he killed his wife and daughters,’ whispered the innkeeper. ‘And he loved them dearly. He came to me this morning, covered in blood. He could not believe what he had done.’
‘He will be arrested and hanged,’ said Antikas, coldly.
‘Wait until you’ve lived through the night before making judgements,’ advised Canta.
Antikas did not reply. Slowly he ate the meal, savouring the taste of the cold beef and the texture of the smoked cheese. At last replete he sat back. A stair board creaked. Antikas glanced up and saw a tall, thin priest, in robes of white, moving down the stairs. ‘He has been here two days,’ said Canta. ‘He says little, but he is mightily afraid.’