Sieben stood also. ‘At least tell us what awaits in Mashrapur,’ he said.
‘A whore and seven silver pennies,’ answered the priest with a dry smile. He turned his blind eyes towards Druss. ‘Be strong, axeman. The road is long and there are legends to be made. But Death awaits, and he is patient. You will see him as you stand beneath the gates in the fourth Year of the Leopard.’
He walked slowly away. ‘Incredible,’ whispered Sieben.
‘Why?’ responded Druss. ‘I could have foretold that the next woman you meet would be a whore.’
‘He knew our names, Druss; he knew everything. Now, when is the fourth Year of the Leopard?’
‘He told us nothing. Let’s move on.’
‘How can you say that it was nothing? He called you Druss the Legend. What legend? How will you build it?’
Ignoring him, Druss walked to his horse and climbed into the saddle. ‘I don’t like horses,’ he said. ‘Once we reach Mashrapur I’ll sell it. Rowena and I will walk back.’
Sieben looked up at the pale-eyed young man. ‘It meant nothing to you, did it? His prophecy, I mean.’
‘They were just words, poet. Noises on the air. Let’s ride.’
After a while Sieben spoke. ‘The Year of the Leopard is forty-three years away. Gods, Druss, you’ll live to be an old man. I wonder where the gates are.’
Druss ignored him and rode on.
Chapter Five
Bodasen threaded his way through the crowds milling on the dock, past the gaudily dressed women with their painted faces and insincere smiles, past the stallholders bellowing their bargains, past the beggars with their deformed limbs and their pleading eyes. Bodasen hated Mashrapur, loathed the smell of the teeming multitudes who gathered here seeking instant wealth. The streets were narrow and choked with the detritus of humanity, the houses built high – three-, four- and five-storey – all linked by alleyways and tunnels and shadowed pathways where robbers could plunge their blades into unsuspecting victims and flee through the labyrinthine back streets before the undermanned city guards could apprehend them.
What a city, thought Bodasen. A place of filth and painted women, a haven for thieves, smugglers, slavers and renegades.
A woman approached him. ‘You look lonely, my love,’ she said, flashing a gold-toothed smile. He gazed down at her and her smile faded. She backed away swiftly and Bodasen rode on.
He came to a narrow alleyway and paused to push his black cloak above his left shoulder. The hilt of his sabre shone in the fading sunlight. As Bodasen walked on, three men stood in the shadows. He felt their eyes upon him and turned his face towards them, his stare challenging; they looked away, and he continued along the alley until it broadened out to a small square with a fountain at the centre, constructed around a bronze statue of a boy riding a dolphin. Several whores were sitting beside the fountain, chatting to one another. They saw him, and instantly their postures changed. Leaning back to thrust out their breasts, they assumed their customary smiles. As he passed he heard their chatter begin again.
The inn was almost empty. An old man sat at the bar, nursing a jug of ale, and two maids were cleaning tables, while a third prepared the night’s fire in the stone hearth. Bodasen moved to a window table and sat, facing the door. A maid approached him.
‘Good evening, my lord. Are you ready for your usual supper?’
‘No. Bring me a goblet of good red wine and a flagon of fresh water.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ She curtsied prettily and walked away. Her greeting eased his irritation. Some, even in this disgusting city, could recognise nobility. The wine was of an average quality, no more than four years old and harsh on the tongue, and Bodasen drank sparingly.
The inn door opened and two men entered. Bodasen leaned back in his chair and watched them approach. The first was a handsome man, tall and wide-shouldered; he wore a crimson cloak over a red tunic, and a sabre was scabbarded at his hip. The second was a huge, bald warrior, heavily muscled and grim of feature.