The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend by David Gemmell

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.

5
     
    B ODASEN 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 stories—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 saber shined in the fading sunlight. As Bodasen walked on, three men stood in the shadows. He felt their eyes upon him and turned his face toward 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 center, 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 preparedthe 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 recognize 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 saber was scabbarded at his hip. The second was a huge, bald warrior, heavily muscled and grim of feature.
    The first man sat opposite Bodasen, the second standing alongside the table. “Where is Harib Ka?” Bodasen asked.
    “Your countryman will not be joining us,” replied Collan.
    “He said he would be here; that is the reason I agreed to this meeting.”
    Collan shrugged. “He had an urgent appointment elsewhere.”
    “He said nothing of it to me.”
    “I think it was unexpected. You wish to do business, or not?”
    “I do not
do business
, Collan. I seek to negotiate a treaty with the … free traders of the Ventrian Sea. My understanding is that you have … shall we say, contacts, among them?”
    Collan chuckled. “Interesting. You can’t bring yourself to say
pirates
, can you? No, that would be too much for a Ventrian nobleman. Well, let us think the situation through. The Ventrian fleet has been scattered or sunk. On land your armies are crushed, and the Emperor slain. Now you pin your hopes