At other times he would consider that his youth properly ended at the conclusion of Dykania later that same year, waiting for Scortius the charioteer in the depths of a cold night, when they heard a sudden, urgent cry and then running feet in the courtyard.
Kyros wheeled around awkwardly to look at the outside door. Strumosus quickly set down his cup and the wine flask he was holding. Three men bulked in the entranceway, then they burst inside, making the space seem suddenly small. One was Scortius. His clothing was torn, he held a knife in his hand. One of the others gripped a drawn sword: a big man, an apparition, dripping blood, with blood on the sword.
Kyros, his jaw hanging open, heard the Glory of the Blues, their own beloved Scortius, rasp harshly, ‘We’re being pursued! Get help. Quickly!’ He said it in a gasp; they had been running.
It occurred to Kyros only later that if Scortius had been a different sort of man he might have shouted for aid himself. Instead, it was Rasic who sprang for the inner doorway and sprinted across the banquet room towards the exit nearest the dormitory, screaming in a blood-chilling voice, ‘Blues! Blues! We are attacked! To the kitchen! Up, Blues!’
Strumosus of Amoria had already seized his favourite chopping knife. There was a mad glint in his eye. Kyros looked around and grabbed for a broom, pointing the shaft towards the empty doorway. There were sounds outside now, in the darkness. Men moving, and the dogs were barking.
Scortius and his two companions came farther into the room. The wounded one with the sword waited calmly, nearest the door, first target of any rush.
Then the sounds of movement in the courtyard ceased. No one could be seen for a moment. There was a frozen interval, eerie after the explosion of action. Kyros saw that the two undercooks and the other boys had each grabbed some sort of weapon. One held an iron poker from the fire. Blood from the wounded man was dripping steadily onto the floor at his feet. The dogs were still barking.
A shadow moved in the darkness of the portico. Another big man.
Kyros saw the dark outline of his blade. The shadow spoke, with a northern accent: ‘We want only Rhodian. No quarrel with Blues or other two men. Lives be spared if you send him out to us.’
Strumosus laughed aloud.
‘Fool! Do you understand where you are, whoever you are? Ignorant louts! Not even the Emperor sends soldiers into this compound.’
‘We have no wish to be here. Send Rhodian and we go. I hold my men so you can-‘
The man on the portico-whoever he was-never finished that sentence, or any other in his days under Jad’s sun or the two moons or the stars.
‘Come, Blues!’ Kyros heard from outside. A wild, exultant cry from many throats. ‘On, Blues! We are attacked!’
A howling came from the north end of the courtyard. Not the dogs. Men. Kyros saw the big, shadowy figure with the sword break off and half turn to look. Then he staggered suddenly sideways. He fell with a sequence of clattering sounds. Other shadows sprang onto the portico. A heavy staff rose and fell, dark against the darkness, once and then again above the downed man. There was a crunching sound. Kyros turned away, swallowing hard.
‘Ignorant men, whoever they are. Or were,’ said Strumosus in a matter-of-fact voice. He set his knife down on the table, utterly unruffled.
‘Soldiers. On leave in the City. Hired for some money. It wouldn’t have taken much, if they’d been drinking with borrowed money.’ It was the bleeding man. Looking at him, Kyros saw that his wounds were in shoulder and thigh, both. He was a soldier himself. His eyes were hard now, angry. Outside, the tumult grew. The other intruders were fighting to get out of the compound. Torches were being brought at a run; they made streams of orange and smoke in the courtyard beyond the open doorway.
‘Ignorant, as I say,’ said Strumosus. ‘To have followed you in here.’
‘They killed two of my men, and your fellow at the gates,’ said the soldier. ‘He tried to stop them.’