stopped spinning. The old woman stopped singing. Nobody moved or said anything. She started again. It sounded like the same song, but Bardas couldn’t be sure about that.
Some time later a large party of men appeared and sat down in a big circle in the middle of the tent. They were noisy and cheerful, ranging in age from seventeen to about sixty; not Sons of Heaven but not dissimilar either; clean-shaven, with very long hair plaited into elaborate pigtails. They wore very thin white shirts that reached down to their knees, and their feet were bare. Presumably, Bardas guessed, they were drovers; almost as bad as pedlars and soldiers, to judge by the notices uptown, though none of them appeared to be carrying any sort of weapon. They drank their echin sparingly from a huge brass cauldron in the middle of the circle, paid no attention to the old woman’s singing and struck Bardas as reasonably harmless.
Some time after that (time passed slowly here, but steadily) a group of five soldiers wandered in. They weren’t Sons of Heaven either; it was hard to say where they were from, but they wore the light-grey-faded-to-brown gambesons that went under standard-issue infantry armour and issue boots, brightly polished belts and the little woollen three-pointed caps that formed the padding for the infantry helmet. Four of them were wearing their swords; the fifth, the corporal of this half-platoon, had a square-ended falchion tucked under his belt. They walked straight across the circle of drovers, who got out of their way, and went into the back room. The old woman stopped singing, opened her eyes, got up and limped quickly away.
There was an old man sitting next to Bardas with his mouth open, a very small cup of echin going cold on the ground in front of him. Bardas leaned over. ‘Trouble?’ he asked.
The old man shrugged. ‘Soldiers,’ he replied.
‘Ah.’
Inside, something smashed, followed by the sound of laughter. The drovers looked up, then carried on with their conversation. One or two of the other customers got up and walked away without looking round.
The soldiers came out, holding big jugs of something that wasn’t echin , and stood looking down at the drovers. The conversation in the circle died again. The old man Bardas had spoken to left just as the man who’d brought Bardas his drink came out with a tragic expression on his face. Everything seemed to suggest that the tavern was a good place not to be for a while. Bardas would have left, but he hadn’t finished his drink.
Thus saith the Prophet: do not start fights in bars. Do not interfere in other people’s fights in bars. As religions went, it had a lot going for it, and Bardas had always kept the faith. When the fight started, he did as he usually did on these occasions; sat very still and watched carefully out of the corner of his field of vision, taking care not to catch the eye of any of the combatants. Taken purely as an entertainment, it had its merits; the drovers had the numbers, while the soldiers had the weapons, together with a rather more robust attitude as to what constituted a legitimate degree of force. When one of the drovers went down and didn’t get up, the fight stopped; instead of a confused pool of action, there was a tableau of fifteen men standing quite still and looking very embarrassed. Nobody spoke for a while; then the corporal (who’d done the actual killing) looked round and said, ‘What?’
One of the soldiers was looking at Bardas; at the dull brown of the tarnished bronze flashes on his collar, four for a master-sergeant. Actually, it wasn’t even Bardas’ own coat; it was something he’d picked up in the mines (nearly new, one careless owner). But everybody seemed to have noticed the little metal clips now. Bardas wondered what they all found so interesting.
The little man who’d brought the wine was standing over him now. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
Bardas looked up.
Some time later a large party of men appeared and sat down in a big circle in the middle of the tent. They were noisy and cheerful, ranging in age from seventeen to about sixty; not Sons of Heaven but not dissimilar either; clean-shaven, with very long hair plaited into elaborate pigtails. They wore very thin white shirts that reached down to their knees, and their feet were bare. Presumably, Bardas guessed, they were drovers; almost as bad as pedlars and soldiers, to judge by the notices uptown, though none of them appeared to be carrying any sort of weapon. They drank their echin sparingly from a huge brass cauldron in the middle of the circle, paid no attention to the old woman’s singing and struck Bardas as reasonably harmless.
Some time after that (time passed slowly here, but steadily) a group of five soldiers wandered in. They weren’t Sons of Heaven either; it was hard to say where they were from, but they wore the light-grey-faded-to-brown gambesons that went under standard-issue infantry armour and issue boots, brightly polished belts and the little woollen three-pointed caps that formed the padding for the infantry helmet. Four of them were wearing their swords; the fifth, the corporal of this half-platoon, had a square-ended falchion tucked under his belt. They walked straight across the circle of drovers, who got out of their way, and went into the back room. The old woman stopped singing, opened her eyes, got up and limped quickly away.
There was an old man sitting next to Bardas with his mouth open, a very small cup of echin going cold on the ground in front of him. Bardas leaned over. ‘Trouble?’ he asked.
The old man shrugged. ‘Soldiers,’ he replied.
‘Ah.’
Inside, something smashed, followed by the sound of laughter. The drovers looked up, then carried on with their conversation. One or two of the other customers got up and walked away without looking round.
The soldiers came out, holding big jugs of something that wasn’t echin , and stood looking down at the drovers. The conversation in the circle died again. The old man Bardas had spoken to left just as the man who’d brought Bardas his drink came out with a tragic expression on his face. Everything seemed to suggest that the tavern was a good place not to be for a while. Bardas would have left, but he hadn’t finished his drink.
Thus saith the Prophet: do not start fights in bars. Do not interfere in other people’s fights in bars. As religions went, it had a lot going for it, and Bardas had always kept the faith. When the fight started, he did as he usually did on these occasions; sat very still and watched carefully out of the corner of his field of vision, taking care not to catch the eye of any of the combatants. Taken purely as an entertainment, it had its merits; the drovers had the numbers, while the soldiers had the weapons, together with a rather more robust attitude as to what constituted a legitimate degree of force. When one of the drovers went down and didn’t get up, the fight stopped; instead of a confused pool of action, there was a tableau of fifteen men standing quite still and looking very embarrassed. Nobody spoke for a while; then the corporal (who’d done the actual killing) looked round and said, ‘What?’
One of the soldiers was looking at Bardas; at the dull brown of the tarnished bronze flashes on his collar, four for a master-sergeant. Actually, it wasn’t even Bardas’ own coat; it was something he’d picked up in the mines (nearly new, one careless owner). But everybody seemed to have noticed the little metal clips now. Bardas wondered what they all found so interesting.
The little man who’d brought the wine was standing over him now. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
Bardas looked up.
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