soon set you right …’
They took a bridge over the Eirdre and walked into Bejofa.
They dined on soup in a cheap eating place and then visited a series of squalid taverns. They went from alley to alley, crossed back courtyards darker than wells, descended into cellars where people drank to pass out and forget. It was a sordid and dangerous world. One’s throat could be slit for a copper belt buckle, girls exchanged their favours for the promise of sleeping in a bed, and famished children begged at the doors of kesh-smoking dens. But no one asked questions in this world. And no one judged anyone else here.
Lorn ended up feeling at ease with Delio.
He had followed the beggar without thinking at first, and then out of weakness. He let himself be towed along. The soup had revived him some, while the darkness of the places they visited reassured him. The worst of his fit of illness seemed to have passed. He still suffered from cramps but he felt better and, despite his fatigue, was starting to enjoy the beggar’s company.
The man was likeable. He only stopped talking to whistle for jugs and bottles which Lorn willingly paid for. Born in Sarme, Delio was a former sailor who had spent the first part of his life at sea and not re-embarked after a stopover in port. Delio himself could not say why. At the appointed hour, he’d ordered another glass of wine instead of returning on board. That had happened in Samarande, fifteen years earlier.
‘I tell myself that one day, perhaps, I will leave on another ship. But I know that it won’t happen. I’ll die here. And as far as dying goes, this city is as good as any, am I right?’
Lorn had nodded.
The beggar was talkative but he wasn’t inquisitive. Besides, he knew all he needed to about Lorn: the man had money and was willing to spend it buying Delio drinks. On that point, Lorn had no illusions. He did not doubt that Delio would abandon him as soon as he ceased paying and would forget all about Lorn by the following day. But it didn’t matter. Delio distracted him. He was joyful and, when inebriated, proved to be a bountiful source of funny and increasingly bawdy tales. One of them made Lorn burst into laughter and cough up the mouthful of wine he had just drunk. It splashed on a man and they would have come to blows if Delio had not defused the situation with a jest.
As the night advanced, the celebrations came to a close in Samarande. The musicians put away their instruments, people went home and the streets emptied little by little. Soon there remained only a few drunks who were chased away by the city watch and some lovebirds who did not want the evening to end.
But Bejofa was a neighbourhood that never slept entirely.
They were going from one tavern to another when, passing a dark alley, Lorn detected presences in the shadows. At first, he acted as if he hadn’t noticed and counted six men. Then he pressed a protective hand upon Delio’s chest to keep him back.
‘Careful,’ he said.
The beggar retreated as the men revealed themselves. Petty criminals. Thugs used to performing dirty deeds. Dressed in thick leather and rough cloth, they had daggers at their belts and all of them held weighted clubs, except for one. He stood with his arms crossed. Tall and bald, his bare shoulders covered with black hairs, he seemed to be the gang’s leader.
Sure of himself, he struck a pose.
‘You gave us quite a chase,’ he said.
‘You were looking for me?’ Lorn asked.
‘You could have killed yourself throwing yourself out that window …’
Sincerely indifferent to his own fate, Lorn shrugged. He heard Delio, behind him, running away before it was too late.
The thugs advanced, ready to fight.
‘It would be simpler if you followed us,’ the bald man said.
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see.’
Lorn let out a sigh.
The thugs slowly encircled him, moving cautiously, some of them slapping their clubs on the palm of their hands. Without doing anything to prevent
They took a bridge over the Eirdre and walked into Bejofa.
They dined on soup in a cheap eating place and then visited a series of squalid taverns. They went from alley to alley, crossed back courtyards darker than wells, descended into cellars where people drank to pass out and forget. It was a sordid and dangerous world. One’s throat could be slit for a copper belt buckle, girls exchanged their favours for the promise of sleeping in a bed, and famished children begged at the doors of kesh-smoking dens. But no one asked questions in this world. And no one judged anyone else here.
Lorn ended up feeling at ease with Delio.
He had followed the beggar without thinking at first, and then out of weakness. He let himself be towed along. The soup had revived him some, while the darkness of the places they visited reassured him. The worst of his fit of illness seemed to have passed. He still suffered from cramps but he felt better and, despite his fatigue, was starting to enjoy the beggar’s company.
The man was likeable. He only stopped talking to whistle for jugs and bottles which Lorn willingly paid for. Born in Sarme, Delio was a former sailor who had spent the first part of his life at sea and not re-embarked after a stopover in port. Delio himself could not say why. At the appointed hour, he’d ordered another glass of wine instead of returning on board. That had happened in Samarande, fifteen years earlier.
‘I tell myself that one day, perhaps, I will leave on another ship. But I know that it won’t happen. I’ll die here. And as far as dying goes, this city is as good as any, am I right?’
Lorn had nodded.
The beggar was talkative but he wasn’t inquisitive. Besides, he knew all he needed to about Lorn: the man had money and was willing to spend it buying Delio drinks. On that point, Lorn had no illusions. He did not doubt that Delio would abandon him as soon as he ceased paying and would forget all about Lorn by the following day. But it didn’t matter. Delio distracted him. He was joyful and, when inebriated, proved to be a bountiful source of funny and increasingly bawdy tales. One of them made Lorn burst into laughter and cough up the mouthful of wine he had just drunk. It splashed on a man and they would have come to blows if Delio had not defused the situation with a jest.
As the night advanced, the celebrations came to a close in Samarande. The musicians put away their instruments, people went home and the streets emptied little by little. Soon there remained only a few drunks who were chased away by the city watch and some lovebirds who did not want the evening to end.
But Bejofa was a neighbourhood that never slept entirely.
They were going from one tavern to another when, passing a dark alley, Lorn detected presences in the shadows. At first, he acted as if he hadn’t noticed and counted six men. Then he pressed a protective hand upon Delio’s chest to keep him back.
‘Careful,’ he said.
The beggar retreated as the men revealed themselves. Petty criminals. Thugs used to performing dirty deeds. Dressed in thick leather and rough cloth, they had daggers at their belts and all of them held weighted clubs, except for one. He stood with his arms crossed. Tall and bald, his bare shoulders covered with black hairs, he seemed to be the gang’s leader.
Sure of himself, he struck a pose.
‘You gave us quite a chase,’ he said.
‘You were looking for me?’ Lorn asked.
‘You could have killed yourself throwing yourself out that window …’
Sincerely indifferent to his own fate, Lorn shrugged. He heard Delio, behind him, running away before it was too late.
The thugs advanced, ready to fight.
‘It would be simpler if you followed us,’ the bald man said.
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see.’
Lorn let out a sigh.
The thugs slowly encircled him, moving cautiously, some of them slapping their clubs on the palm of their hands. Without doing anything to prevent
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