‘Even a one-armed man can stab you in the back. Besides, it isn’t tidy. Always finish one job before you go on to the next.’ He still had his left hand tightly pressed to his side.
‘Are you all right?’ Sparhawk asked him.
‘It’s only a scratch.’
‘Scratches don’t bleed like that. Let me have a look.’
The gash in Kalten’s side was sizeable, but it did not appear to be too deep. Sparhawk ripped the sleeve off the smock of one of the casualties, wadded it up, and placed it over the cut in Kalten’s side. ‘Hold that in place,’ he said. ‘Push in on it to slow the bleeding.’
‘I’ve been cut before, Sparhawk. I know what to do.’
Sparhawk looked around at the crumpled bodies littering the alley. ‘I think we ought to leave,’ he said. ‘Somebody in the neighbourhood might get curious about all the noise.’ Then he frowned. ‘Did you notice anything peculiar about these men?’ he asked.
Kalten shrugged. ‘They were fairly inept.’
‘That’s not what I mean. Men who make a living by waylaying people in alleys aren’t usually very interested in their personal appearance, and these fellows are all clean-shaven.’ He rolled over one of the bodies and ripped open the front of his canvas smock. ‘Isn’t that interesting?’ he observed. Beneath the smock the dead man wore a red tunic with an embroidered emblem over the left breast.
‘Church soldier,’ Kalten grunted. ‘Do you think that Annias might possibly dislike us?’
‘It’s not unlikely. Let’s get out of here. The survivors might have gone for help.’
‘The chapterhouse then – or the inn?’
Sparhawk shook his head. ‘Somebody’s seen through our disguises, and Annias would expect us to go to one of those places.’
‘You could be right about that. Any ideas?’
‘I know of a place. It’s not too far. Are you all right to walk?’
‘I can go as far as you can. I’m younger, remember?’
‘Only by six weeks.’
‘Younger is younger, Sparhawk. Let’s not quibble about numbers.’
They tucked their broadswords under their belts and walked out of the mouth of the alley. Sparhawk supported his wounded friend as they moved out into the open.
The street along which they walked grew progressively shabbier, and they soon entered a maze of interconnecting lanes and unpaved alleys. The buildings were large and run-down, and they teemed with roughly dressed people who seemed indifferent to the squalor around them.
‘It’s a rabbit warren, isn’t it?’ Kalten said. ‘Is this place much farther? I’m getting a little tired.’
‘It’s just on the other side of that next intersection.’
Kalten grunted and pressed his hand more tightly to his side.
They moved on. The looks directed at them by the inhabitants of this slum were unfriendly, even hostile. Kalten’s clothing marked him as a member of the ruling class, and these people at the very bottom of society had little use for courtiers and their servants.
When they reached the intersection, Sparhawk led his friend up a muddy alley. They had gone about halfway when a thick-bodied man with a rusty pike in his hands stepped out of a doorway to bar their path. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.
‘I need to talk to Platime,’ Sparhawk replied.
‘I don’t think he wants to hear anything you have to say. If you’re smart, you’ll get out of this part of town before nightfall. Accidents happen here after dark.’
‘And sometimes even before dark,’ Sparhawk said, drawing his sword.
‘I can have a dozen men here in two winks.’
‘And my broken-nosed friend here can have your head off in one,’ Kalten told him.
The man stepped back, his face apprehensive.
‘What’s it to be, neighbour?’ Sparhawk asked. ‘Do you take us to Platime, or do you and I play for a bit?’
‘You’ve got no right to threaten me.’
Sparhawk raised his sword so that the fellow could get a good look at it. ‘This gives me all sorts of rights, neighbour. Lean your pike against that wall and take us to Platime – now!’
The thick-bodied man flinched and then carefully set his pike against the wall, turned, and led them on up the alley. It came to a dead end a hundred paces farther on, and a stone stairway ran down to what appeared to be a cellar door.
‘Down there,’ the man said, pointing.
‘Lead the way,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘I don’t want you behind me, friend. You look like the sort who might make errors in judgement.’
Sullenly, the fellow went down the mud-coated stairs and rapped twice on the door. ‘It’s me,’ he called. ‘Sef. There are a couple of nobles here who want to talk to Platime.’
There was a pause followed by the rattling of a chain. The door opened and a bearded man thrust his head out. ‘Platime doesn’t like noblemen,’ he declared.
‘I’ll change his mind for him,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Step back out of the way, neighbour.’
The bearded man looked at the sword in Sparhawk’s hand, swallowed hard, and opened the door wider.
‘Pass right along, Sef,’ Kalten said to their guide.
Sef went through the door.
‘Join us, friend,’ Sparhawk told the bearded man when he and Kalten were inside. ‘We like lots of company.’
The stairs continued down between mouldy stone walls that wept moisture. At the bottom, the stair opened out into a very large cellar with a vaulted stone ceiling. There was a fire burning in a pit in the centre of the room, filling the air with smoke, and the walls were lined with roughly constructed cots and straw-filled pallets. Two dozen or so men and women in a wide variety of garments sat on those cots and pallets drinking and playing at dice. Just beyond the fire pit a huge man with a fierce black beard and a vast paunch sprawled in a large chair with his feet thrust out towards the flames. He wore a satin doublet of a faded orange colour, spotted and stained down the front, and he held a silver tankard in one beefy hand.
‘That’s Platime,’ Sef said nervously. ‘He’s a little drunk, so you should be careful, my Lords.’
‘We can deal with it,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Thanks for your help, Sef. I don’t know how we’d have managed without you.’ Then he led Kalten on around the fire pit.
‘Who are all these people?’ Kalten asked in a low voice, looking around at the men and women lining the walls.
