‘No,’ admitted the younger man.
‘It is the same with combat. I can teach you many styles of punch, and even more defences. I can show you how to feint, and lure an opponent in to your blows.’
‘Perhaps you can – but why would you?’
‘Pride,’ said Borcha.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’ll explain it – after you beat Grassin.’
‘I won’t be here long enough,’ said Druss. ‘As soon as a ship bound for Ventria docks in Mashrapur, I shall sail on her.’
‘Before the war such a journey would cost ten raq. Now. . . ? Who knows? But in one month there is a small tournament at Visha, with a first prize of one hundred raq. The rich have palaces in Visha, and a great deal of money can be made on side wagers. Grassin will be taking part, and several of the other notable figures. Agree to let me train you and I will enter your name in my place.’
Druss stood and poured a goblet of wine, which he passed to the bald fighter. ‘I have taken employment, and I promised the Overseer I would see the work done. It will take a full month.’
‘Then I will train you in the evenings.’
‘On one condition,’ said Druss.
‘Name it!’
‘The same one I gave the Overseer. If a ship bound for Ventria docks and I can get passage, then I will up and go.’
‘Agreed.’ Borcha thrust out his hand. Druss clasped it and Borcha stood. ‘I’ll leave you to your rest. By the way, warn your poet friend that he is taking fruit from the wrong tree.’
‘He is his own man,’ said Druss.
Borcha shrugged. ‘Warn him anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Chapter Two
Sieben lay awake, staring at the ornate ceiling. Beside him the woman slept, and he could feel the warmth of her skin against his side and legs. There was a painting on the ceiling, a hunting scene showing men armed with spears and bows pursuing a red-maned lion. What kind of man would have such a composition above the marital bed, he thought? Sieben smiled. The First Minister of Mashrapur must have an enormous ego since, whenever he and his wife made love, she would be gazing up at a group of men more handsome than her husband.
Rolling to his side, he looked down at the sleeping woman. Her back was turned towards him, her arm thrust under the pillow, her legs drawn up. Her hair was dark, almost black against the creamy-white of the pillow. He could not see her face, but he pictured again the full lips and the long, beautiful neck. When first he had seen her she was standing beside Mapek in the marketplace. The minister was surrounded by underlings and sycophants, Evejorda looking bored and out of place.
Sieben had stood very still, waiting for her eyes to glance in his direction. When they did, he sent her a smile. One of his best – a swift, flashing grin that said, ‘I am bored too. I understand you. I am a linked soul.’ She raised an eyebrow at him, signifying her distaste for his impertinence, and then turned away. He waited, knowing she would look again. She moved to a nearby stall and began to examine a set of ceramic bowls. He angled himself through the crowd and she looked up, startled to see him so close.
‘Good morning, my lady,’ he said. She ignored him. ‘You are very beautiful.’
‘And you are presumptuous, sir.’ Her voice had a northern burr, which he normally found irritating. Not so now.
‘Beauty demands presumption. Just as it demands adoration.”
‘You are very sure of yourself,’ she said, moving in close to disconcert him.
She was wearing a simple gown of radiant blue and a Lentrian shawl of white silk. But it was her perfume that filled his senses – a rich, scented musk he recognised as Moserche, a Ventrian import costing five gold raq an ounce.
‘Are you happy?’ he asked her.
‘What a ridiculous question! Who could answer it?’
‘Someone who is happy,’ he told her.
She smiled. ‘And you, sir, are you happy?’