always be trying to spoil things for me?’
Iseutz laughed. ‘You’re going to die and leave me all your money? Fat chance. If I thought you were mortal, I’d have bitten your throat out in the night.’
Niessa closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘You come out with things like that, and then you wonder why I keep you here. I know you don’t mean it, you’re just trying to shock me. You should have grown out of that when you were ten.’
CHAPTER FOUR
There wasn’t much wrong with Sammyra that an earthquake wouldn’t fix, except for the smell. The post coach had broken a wheel on its way down the mountains, which meant it was late getting in; the connecting coach to Ap’ Calick was long gone. There would be another one through in the late afternoon. Until then, Bardas was at liberty to wander about the town and absorb its unique ambience.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Can’t I just sit here and wait?’
The posthouse keeper looked at him. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ He looked up the street and down again. ‘Can I have a drink of water, please?’
‘There’s a well just down the road,’ the keeper replied. ‘There, on the left, by the burned-out mill.’
Bardas frowned. ‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but is the water here all right to drink?’
‘Well, we drink it.’
‘Thanks,’ Bardas said, ‘but I’ll see if I can find some milk or something.’
There were plenty of inns and taverns in Sammyra. There were the uptown inns, cut into the rock of Citadel Hill or amplified out of natural caves; most of them had signs by the door saying ‘No Drovers, Pedlars or Soldiers’, with a couple of large men leaning in the doorway to explain the message to any drovers, pedlars or soldiers who weren’t able to read. There were the middle-town taverns, an awning giving shade to a scattering of old men sitting on cushions on the ground, with a dark doorway behind. There were the downtown booze-wagons, drawn up in a circle on the edge of the horse-fair, with a hatch in the side into which money went and from which small earthenware jugs emerged. Bardas chose one of the middle-town awnings at random; it doubled as a knife-grinder’s booth and doctor’s surgery, and there was an old woman sitting at the back singing with her eyes shut, though Bardas didn’t know enough about Sammyran poetry and music to tell whether she was an attraction or a pest. The song was something to do with eagles, vultures and the return of spring, and a lot of it appeared to be mumbling. Bardas didn’t care for it very much. He sat down in the opposite corner; the old men stopped what they were doing, looked round to stare at him, then turned away. A very short, bald man with a long beard suddenly appeared behind his left shoulder and asked him what he wanted to drink.
‘I don’t know,’ Bardas replied. ‘What’ve you got?’
The old man frowned. ‘ Echin ,’ he said, as if answering a question about the colour of the sky. ‘Do you want some or not?’
Bardas nodded. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘How much?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ the man said. ‘You can have a cup, a flask or a jug. You choose.’
‘Sorry,’ Bardas said. ‘I meant, how much money?’
‘What? Oh. Half-quarter a jug.’
‘I’ll have a jug, then.’
The old man went away and came back a moment later, sidestepping the shower of sparks from the grinder’s wheel and the patch of blood left behind by the doctor’s last patient. ‘Here,’ he said, presenting Bardas with the jug and a tiny wooden cup. Bardas gave him his money, half-filled the cup and sniffed it. By now he was too thirsty to care.
Echin turned out to be hot, thin, sweet and black; an infusion of herbs in boiling water, flavoured with honey, cinnamon and a little nutmeg and used to dilute a heavy raw spirit that’d undoubtedly be fatal if drunk on its own. It was dangerously good for the thirst. Bardas nibbled down a cupful of the stuff and settled down to wait till his head
Iseutz laughed. ‘You’re going to die and leave me all your money? Fat chance. If I thought you were mortal, I’d have bitten your throat out in the night.’
Niessa closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘You come out with things like that, and then you wonder why I keep you here. I know you don’t mean it, you’re just trying to shock me. You should have grown out of that when you were ten.’
CHAPTER FOUR
There wasn’t much wrong with Sammyra that an earthquake wouldn’t fix, except for the smell. The post coach had broken a wheel on its way down the mountains, which meant it was late getting in; the connecting coach to Ap’ Calick was long gone. There would be another one through in the late afternoon. Until then, Bardas was at liberty to wander about the town and absorb its unique ambience.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Can’t I just sit here and wait?’
The posthouse keeper looked at him. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ He looked up the street and down again. ‘Can I have a drink of water, please?’
‘There’s a well just down the road,’ the keeper replied. ‘There, on the left, by the burned-out mill.’
Bardas frowned. ‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but is the water here all right to drink?’
‘Well, we drink it.’
‘Thanks,’ Bardas said, ‘but I’ll see if I can find some milk or something.’
There were plenty of inns and taverns in Sammyra. There were the uptown inns, cut into the rock of Citadel Hill or amplified out of natural caves; most of them had signs by the door saying ‘No Drovers, Pedlars or Soldiers’, with a couple of large men leaning in the doorway to explain the message to any drovers, pedlars or soldiers who weren’t able to read. There were the middle-town taverns, an awning giving shade to a scattering of old men sitting on cushions on the ground, with a dark doorway behind. There were the downtown booze-wagons, drawn up in a circle on the edge of the horse-fair, with a hatch in the side into which money went and from which small earthenware jugs emerged. Bardas chose one of the middle-town awnings at random; it doubled as a knife-grinder’s booth and doctor’s surgery, and there was an old woman sitting at the back singing with her eyes shut, though Bardas didn’t know enough about Sammyran poetry and music to tell whether she was an attraction or a pest. The song was something to do with eagles, vultures and the return of spring, and a lot of it appeared to be mumbling. Bardas didn’t care for it very much. He sat down in the opposite corner; the old men stopped what they were doing, looked round to stare at him, then turned away. A very short, bald man with a long beard suddenly appeared behind his left shoulder and asked him what he wanted to drink.
‘I don’t know,’ Bardas replied. ‘What’ve you got?’
The old man frowned. ‘ Echin ,’ he said, as if answering a question about the colour of the sky. ‘Do you want some or not?’
Bardas nodded. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘How much?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ the man said. ‘You can have a cup, a flask or a jug. You choose.’
‘Sorry,’ Bardas said. ‘I meant, how much money?’
‘What? Oh. Half-quarter a jug.’
‘I’ll have a jug, then.’
The old man went away and came back a moment later, sidestepping the shower of sparks from the grinder’s wheel and the patch of blood left behind by the doctor’s last patient. ‘Here,’ he said, presenting Bardas with the jug and a tiny wooden cup. Bardas gave him his money, half-filled the cup and sniffed it. By now he was too thirsty to care.
Echin turned out to be hot, thin, sweet and black; an infusion of herbs in boiling water, flavoured with honey, cinnamon and a little nutmeg and used to dilute a heavy raw spirit that’d undoubtedly be fatal if drunk on its own. It was dangerously good for the thirst. Bardas nibbled down a cupful of the stuff and settled down to wait till his head
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