Juliet McKenna - The Gambler's Fortune

“I’ll throttle you with your own tripes, you little shit,” raged Vadim, grabbing a stool to fling it at ’Gren, who dodged it easily before throwing a platter of bones and scraps back to catch Vadim full in the chest, spattering him with grease. Enraged, the big man lunged forward, mad as a taunted bear. A fruit rind under ’Gren’s foot betrayed him, dropping him to one knee. With a roar of triumph, Vadim swung at the side of ’Gren’s head. Moving away even before the blow connected, ’Gren had an arm out to cushion his landing and rolled with a grace most tumblers would envy. Back on his feet, he split Vadim’s lip with a lightning punch before the fat man knew what had hit him. A second blow to the gut doubled the clown up. He’d made the same mistake as so many others, thinking ’Gren’s size meant an easy mark. I’d lost count of the men who’d learned to their considerable cost that skinny frame was strong as seasoned wood and whipcord. There was also the fact that ’Gren never imagined he could be beaten. I caught Sorgrad’s eye and he nodded; we’d both seen ’Gren was upping the pace.

’Gren took a step backward, ready and waiting. When Vadim straightened up, he promptly kicked the big man in one shin. I winced, knowing ’Gren still favors the steel-capped boots of the sensible miner. Vadim howled and hopped as he clutched his leg, as comic as anything he’d shown us on stage. The witless Lalla was stupid enough to laugh and with a speed he’d have been better employing against ’Gren, Vadim lashed out, knocking the daft blossom clean off her feet. Kelty darted forward to drag the weeping chit clear.

The mocking amusement on ’Gren’s face was lit with bright anger and a blade glinted steely in one hand.

“He won’t kill him, will he?” Niello tapped Sorgrad on the shoulder, faint concern wrinkling his forehead. “I’ll have no end of trouble finding another clown who knows that part, now the festival proper has started.”

Sorgrad didn’t answer and I was watching the fight. Vadim was moving more cautiously now, eyes flickering to ’Gren’s knife hand. ’Gren was coming closer, eyes shining with a pale blue fire and a faint smile curving the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying himself and my heart sank; that made him so very dangerous. The two of them circled around and around, feet scuffing up the rushes and rubbish. Vadim spread his hands, checking behind for tables and benches at every other step. ’Gren followed, poised like a cat.

Usara made some faint murmur of frustration. “Can’t we put a stop to this?”

“You won’t succeed, and if you spoil ’Gren’s fun you’ll make an enemy for life.” The mage’s mouth hung open with questions he couldn’t quite frame. I spared a glance for Sorgrad, to reassure myself he was ready to intervene. He was the only one who could stop ’Gren killing the idiot now.

Vadim made his play in that same breath, fat face creased with vicious cunning. He edged around a table where lamb bones lay in a puddle of sauce. Snatching up a carving fork, he lunged at ’Gren, a swerving move to stay beyond the sweep of the smaller man’s knife. What Vadim didn’t expect was ’Gren instantly swapping the knife to his other hand, a sideways step taking him out of danger and around to Vadim’s unprotected back. The knife flashed in the lamplight, the swiftness of the move deceiving my eye and I had been watching for it, knowing it of old.

Vadim’s yell mingled pain and outrage and blood oozed between his fingers as he clutched a deep gash in the meat of his shoulder. Stumbling around in shock, he gaped at ’Gren, who was grinning broadly, daggers in both hands now. Vadim dropped his weapon from nerveless fingers, not the only one to see his death in the Mountain Man’s bright eyes.

“Nia mer es! Als verget.” Sorgrad’s curt command in the Mountain tongue cut through the tense silence. The fire in ’Gren’s face faded and he looked at his brother, puzzled, then at Vadim, almost as if seeing him for the first time. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“I think you owe these ladies an apology, friend.” Sorgrad’s voice was genial enough but the glitter in his eyes told a different story. Vadim curled his lip and drew a deep breath on some defiant retort.

Niello stepped forward making a wary bow to ’Gren while prudently keeping out of range of his knives. “That’s enough, Vadim. You’ve had your lesson in manners, so get out of here and clean yourself up.”

I couldn’t ever recall hearing such authority in Niello’s voice and it certainly brought Vadim to heel. The clown drew himself up and spat bloody phlegm into the rushes at ’Gren’s feet. He left the yard, all eyes on him in silent hostility, no one offering so much as a handkerchief to staunch his oozing wound.

As soon as Vadim’s back was turned, the girl Kelty was at ’Gren’s elbow, offering him wine, dabbing delicately at a bruise on his cheekbone now darkening impressively under his fair skin. He sheathed his knives and submitted meekly to her ministrations. She shot a proprietorial glance at the other dancers, who had to content themselves with helping the grizzling Lalla back into the inn. ’Gren gave me a wink over Kelty’s shoulder that suggested his energies were far from spent.

“Come on, Usara. It’s time I was off to my bed.” I stood up and gave Sorgrad a brief embrace. “Call on us in the morning.”

“We’ll do that, first thing. Well, as soon as we’re out of bed.” Sorgrad’s gaze was resting on the erstwhile heroine, now standing looking rather impatiently after Niello, who was trying to excuse the fight to the innkeeper.

“Come on, Usara.” The wizard followed me out with an air of confusion that kept him silent all the way back to our inn, up the stairs and into our respective bedchambers.

I learned this song as a young bride, when my husband’s cohort was stationed in defense of Selerima. Small groups would gather in the islands in the river at equinox and solstice, unmistakably descendants of the People of the Plains. This song makes it clear that Arimelin has been granting her gift of dreams to all races for uncounted generations

I don’t think they’re coming.” Usara stalked over to the window to look down at the street for the third time since the second chime of the day. Below Selerimans were walking off last night’s excesses or setting off to haggle at the fairground.

I helped myself to fine white bread and lavender-scented honey cleared of every speck of comb. This wasn’t a morning for anything greased or spicy. “Sorgrad’ll keep his word,” I said stickily. “Even if he’s decided against helping us.”

Usara picked up a tankard of small beer and set it down again untasted. “You don’t think they will?”

“I have no idea,” I replied, exasperated. “I reckon the chances are better than even but Sorgrad will have a sight more questions before he agrees to work for wizards.”

“Sorgrad does the thinking for both of them?” asked Usara with a faint sneer.