‘What bouts?’
The man looked at him appraisingly, and his glittering eyes held no hint of warmth. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to fool Old Thorn, would you?’
‘I’m a stranger here,’ said Druss. ‘Now, what bouts?’
‘Follow me, lad,’ said Thorn, and he pushed his way through the crowd towards the back of the tavern and on through a narrow doorway. Druss followed him and found himself standing in a rectangular warehouse where a wide circle of sand had been roped off at the centre. By the far walls were a group of athletes, moving through a series of exercises to loosen the muscles of shoulders and back.
‘You ever fought?’
‘Not for money.’
Thorn nodded, then reached out and lifted Druss’s hand. ‘A good size, and flat knuckles. But are you fast, boy?’
‘What is the prize?’ countered the young man.
‘It won’t work that way – not for you. This is a standard contest and all the entrants are nominated well in advance so that sporting gentlemen can have opportunities to judge the quality of the fighter. But just before the start of the competition there’ll be offers to men in the crowd to earn a few pennies by taking on various champions. A golden raq, for example, to the man who can stay on his feet for one turn of the sandglass. They do it to allow the fighters to warm up against low-quality opposition.’
‘How long is one turn?’ asked Druss.
‘About as long as it’s been since you first walked into the Blind Corsair.’
‘And what if a man won?’
‘It doesn’t happen, lad. But if it did, then he’d take the loser’s place in the main event. No, the main money is made on wagers among the crowd. How much coin are you carrying?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, old man.’
‘Pah! I’m not a robber, lad. Used to be, but then I got old and slow. Now I live on my wits. You look like a man who could stand up for himself. At first I mistook you for Grassin the Lentrian -that’s him over there, by the far door.’ Druss followed the old man’s pointing finger and saw a powerfully built young man with short-cropped black hair. He was talking to another heavily-muscled man, a blond warrior with a dangling moustache. ‘The other one is Skatha, he is a Naashanite sailor. And the big fellow at the back is Borcha. He’ll win tonight. No question. Deadly, he is. Most likely someone will be crippled by him before the evening is out.’
Druss gazed at the man and felt the hackles on his neck rise. Borcha was enormous, standing some seven inches above six feet tall. He was bald, his head vaguely pointed as if his skin was stretched over a Vagrian helm. His shoulders were massively muscled, his neck huge with muscles swollen and bulging.
‘No good looking at him like that, boy. He’s too good for you. Trust me on that. He’s skilled and very fast. He won’t even step up for the warming bouts. No one would face him – not even for twenty golden raq. But that Grassin now, I think you could stand against him for a turn of the glass. And if you’ve some coin to wager, I’ll find takers.’
‘What do you get, old man?’
‘Half of what we make.’
‘What odds could you bargain for?’
‘Two to one. Maybe three.’
‘And if I went against Borcha?’
‘Put it from your mind, boy. We want to make money – not coffin fuel.’
‘How much?’ persisted Druss.
‘Ten to one – twenty to one. The gods alone know!’
Druss opened the pouch at his side, removing ten silver pieces. Casually he dropped them into the old man’s outstretched hand. ‘Let it be known that I wish to stand against Borcha for a turn of the glass.’
‘Asia’s tits, he’ll kill you.’
‘If he doesn’t, you could make a hundred pieces of silver. Maybe more.’
‘There is that, of course,’ said Old Thorn, with a crooked grin.
*
Crowds slowly began to fill the warehouse arena. Rich nobles clad in silks and fine leathers, their ladies beside them in lace and satin, were seated on high tiers overlooking the sand circle. On the lower levels were the merchants and traders in their conical caps arid long capes. Druss felt uncomfortable, hemmed in by the mass. The air was growing foul, the temperature rising as more and more people filed in.