veiling that his eyes were invisible, but Scaurus knew he was seen; the weight of that hidden gaze was like a blow. “Do you not, indeed? Then you may call me Avshahin.”
Taso Vones broke in with a nervous chuckle. “My lord Avshar is pleased to make a pun, calling himself ‘king’ in Videssos’ language and his own. Surely he will understand my friend meant no offense, but has seen the bottom of his winecup perhaps more often than he should—”
Avshar turned his unseen stare on the Khatrisher. “Little man, this does not concern you. Unless you would have it so …?” His voice was still smooth, but there was menace there, like freezing water under thin ice. Vones, pale, flinched and shook his head.
“Good.” The Yezda dealt Marcus a tremendous roundhouse buffet, sending him lurching back with blood starting from the corner of his mouth. “Dog! Swine! Vile, crawling insect! Is it not enough I must dwell in this city of my foes? Must I also be subject to the insults of Videssos’ slaves? Jackal of a mercenary, it shall be your privilege to choose the weapon that will be your death.”
The feasting hall grew still. All eyes were on the Roman, who abruptly understood Avshar’s challenge. In an odd way he was thankful the Yezda had struck him; the blow and the rage that followed were burning thewine from his blood. He was surprised at the steadiness of his voice as he answered, “You know as well as I, I spilled my wine on you by accident. But if you must take it further, sword and shield will do well enough.”
Avshar threw back his head and laughed, a sound colder and more cruel than any of the winter blizzards that had howled down on Imbros. “So be it—your doom from your own mouth you have spoken. Mebod!” he shouted, and a frightened-looking Yezda servant appeared at his side. “Fetch my gear from my chambers.” He gave the Roman a mocking bow. “The Videssians, you see, would not take it kindly if one who bears them no love were to come armed to a function where their precious Emperor was present.”
Taso Vones was plucking at Scaurus’ arm. “Have you lost your wits? That is the deadliest swordsman I have ever seen, the winner in a score of duels, and a sorcerer besides. Crave his forgiveness now, before he cuts a second mouth in your throat!”
“I asked his pardon once, but he hardly seems in a forgiving mood. Besides,” Marcus said, thinking of the potent blade at his side, “I may know something he doesn’t.”
Gaius Philippus was so drunk he could hardly stand, but he still saw with a fighting man’s knowledge. “The big son of a pimp will likely try to use his reach to chop you to bits from farther out than you can fight back. Get inside and let the air out of him.”
Marcus nodded; he had been thinking along those lines himself. “Send someone after my shield, will you?”
“Adiatun is already on his way.”
“Fine.”
While everyone waited for the fighters’ gear to be fetched, a double handful of high-ranking officers, like so many servants, shoved tables around, clearing a space for combat.
Wagers flew thick and fast. From the shouts, Marcus knew he was the underdog. He was pleased, though, when he heard Helvis’ clear contralto announce, “Three pieces of gold on the Roman!” Gawtruz of Thatagush covered her bet.
The Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras called to Vardanes Sphrantzes, “Whom do you like, seal-stamper?”
The dislike on the Sevastos’ face covered Gavras, Avshar, and Scaurusimpartially. He rubbed his neatly bearded chin. “Though it grieves me to say so, I think it all too likely the Yezda will win.”
“Are you a hundred goldpieces sure?”
Sphrantzes hesitated again, then nodded. “Done!” Thorisin exclaimed. Marcus was glad to have the Sevastokrator’s backing, but knew the Emperor’s brother would have been as quick to favor Avshar if Sphrantzes had chosen him.
A cry rang out when the Yezda ambassador’s servant returned with his
Taso Vones broke in with a nervous chuckle. “My lord Avshar is pleased to make a pun, calling himself ‘king’ in Videssos’ language and his own. Surely he will understand my friend meant no offense, but has seen the bottom of his winecup perhaps more often than he should—”
Avshar turned his unseen stare on the Khatrisher. “Little man, this does not concern you. Unless you would have it so …?” His voice was still smooth, but there was menace there, like freezing water under thin ice. Vones, pale, flinched and shook his head.
“Good.” The Yezda dealt Marcus a tremendous roundhouse buffet, sending him lurching back with blood starting from the corner of his mouth. “Dog! Swine! Vile, crawling insect! Is it not enough I must dwell in this city of my foes? Must I also be subject to the insults of Videssos’ slaves? Jackal of a mercenary, it shall be your privilege to choose the weapon that will be your death.”
The feasting hall grew still. All eyes were on the Roman, who abruptly understood Avshar’s challenge. In an odd way he was thankful the Yezda had struck him; the blow and the rage that followed were burning thewine from his blood. He was surprised at the steadiness of his voice as he answered, “You know as well as I, I spilled my wine on you by accident. But if you must take it further, sword and shield will do well enough.”
Avshar threw back his head and laughed, a sound colder and more cruel than any of the winter blizzards that had howled down on Imbros. “So be it—your doom from your own mouth you have spoken. Mebod!” he shouted, and a frightened-looking Yezda servant appeared at his side. “Fetch my gear from my chambers.” He gave the Roman a mocking bow. “The Videssians, you see, would not take it kindly if one who bears them no love were to come armed to a function where their precious Emperor was present.”
Taso Vones was plucking at Scaurus’ arm. “Have you lost your wits? That is the deadliest swordsman I have ever seen, the winner in a score of duels, and a sorcerer besides. Crave his forgiveness now, before he cuts a second mouth in your throat!”
“I asked his pardon once, but he hardly seems in a forgiving mood. Besides,” Marcus said, thinking of the potent blade at his side, “I may know something he doesn’t.”
Gaius Philippus was so drunk he could hardly stand, but he still saw with a fighting man’s knowledge. “The big son of a pimp will likely try to use his reach to chop you to bits from farther out than you can fight back. Get inside and let the air out of him.”
Marcus nodded; he had been thinking along those lines himself. “Send someone after my shield, will you?”
“Adiatun is already on his way.”
“Fine.”
While everyone waited for the fighters’ gear to be fetched, a double handful of high-ranking officers, like so many servants, shoved tables around, clearing a space for combat.
Wagers flew thick and fast. From the shouts, Marcus knew he was the underdog. He was pleased, though, when he heard Helvis’ clear contralto announce, “Three pieces of gold on the Roman!” Gawtruz of Thatagush covered her bet.
The Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras called to Vardanes Sphrantzes, “Whom do you like, seal-stamper?”
The dislike on the Sevastos’ face covered Gavras, Avshar, and Scaurusimpartially. He rubbed his neatly bearded chin. “Though it grieves me to say so, I think it all too likely the Yezda will win.”
“Are you a hundred goldpieces sure?”
Sphrantzes hesitated again, then nodded. “Done!” Thorisin exclaimed. Marcus was glad to have the Sevastokrator’s backing, but knew the Emperor’s brother would have been as quick to favor Avshar if Sphrantzes had chosen him.
A cry rang out when the Yezda ambassador’s servant returned with his
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