Klay carried Loira to the black carriage and opened the door. Kells and Tess scrambled in. Klay laid the now unconscious woman on a padded seat and sat beside her. The physician, Eduse, climbed up alongside the driver. Kells heard the slap of reins on the backs of the four horses, then the carriage lurched forward. His mother awoke and cried out in pain and Kells felt his heart would burst.
The journey did not take long, for the hospice was built close to the poor quarter, and Kells followed as Klay carried her inside the white-walled building. Orderlies in long white tunics rushed forward to help, laying Loira on a stretcher and covering her with a thick blanket of white wool. Eduse led them down a long corridor to a room as large as any Kells had ever seen. The north and south walls were lined with pallet beds, in which lay the sick and the dying. Many people were moving around the room — orderlies dressed in white, visitors arriving to see relatives or friends, physicians preparing medicines. The stretcher-bearers carried his mother the length of the room and out into another corridor, coming at last to a small room some twelve feet long. They transferred Loira to one of the two narrow beds, both covered in fresh white linen, then covered her with a blanket. After the orderlies had gone Eduse produced a phial of dark liquid. Lifting Loira's head he poured the liquid into her mouth. She gagged, then swallowed. Some of the medicine dribbled to her chin. Eduse dabbed at it with a cloth, then eased her head back to the pillow.
'You may sleep here with her, Kells,' said Eduse. 'You too,' he told Tess.
'I can't stay,' she said. 'Have to work,'
'I'll pay your. . wages,' said Klay.
Tess gave him a gap-toothed grin. 'That's not it, lovely man. If I'm away from my patch some other whore will take my trade. I need to be there. But I'll come here when I can.' Stepping in close she took Klay by the hand, raising it to her lips and kissing it. Then she swung away, embarrassed, and left the room.
Kells walked to the bedside and took his mother's hand. She was sleeping now, but the skin was hot and scaly to the touch. The boy sighed and sat down on the bed.
Klay and Eduse walked from the room. 'How long?' he heard Klay ask, his voice little more than a whisper.
'Difficult to say. The cancers are very advanced. She could die in the night — or last another month. You should get home, you've a fight tomorrow. I saw the Drenai fight — you'll need to be at your best.'
'I shall be, my friend. But I'll not go home yet. I think I'll take a stroll. Get some air. You know, I have never wanted to be a god. Not until tonight.'
Kells heard him move away.
Jarid was a careful man, a thinker. Few understood this — for what they saw was a large, round-shouldered, shambling bear of a man, slow of speech — and therefore dim-witted. This was a misconception which Jarid did not seek to change. Far from it. Born in the slums of Gulgothir, he had learned fast that the only way for a man to prosper lay in outwitting his fellow men. The first lesson to be learned was that morality was merely a weapon used by the rich. There was — and never would be — an ultimate right or wrong. All life was theft in one form or another. The rich called their thefts taxes, and a king could steal a nation by invasion and conquest and men would proclaim it a glorious victory. Yet a beggar could steal a loaf of bread and the same men would label it larceny, and hang the man. Jarid would have none of it. He had killed his first man just after his twelfth birthday, a fat merchant whose name he could no longer remember. He had stabbed him in the groin, then slashed his purse clear of its retaining belt. The man had screamed loud and long, the sound following Jarid as he sped through the alleyways. The money had bought medicines for his mother and sister, and food for their shrunken bellies.
Now, at forty-four, Jarid was an accomplished killer. So accomplished that his skills had come to the attention of the State, and his work was now paid for out of public funds. He had even been allotted a tax number, the ultimate symbol of citizenship, giving him the right to vote in local elections. He had a small house in the south-east quarter, and a housekeeper who also warmed his bed. Far from rich, Jarid was still a long way from the urchin thief he had once been.
From his position in the alleyway he had watched Druss enter The Broken Sword tavern, and had followed him inside, listening as he ordered his meal and noting the tavern maid telling him that the house was almost full and that the food would take a little time to prepare.
Jarid had left the tavern and run to where Copass waited; he gave the man his orders and stood back in the shadows, waiting. Copass soon returned with a dozen men, tough capable fighters mostly armed with knives and clubs. The last man carried a short crossbow. Jarid took the thin faced bowman by the arm and led him away from the others, then he spoke to him in a low voice. 'You don't shoot unless all else fails. You will be paid whether you loose a bolt or no. Your target is a black-bearded Drenai in a dark leather shirt — you will have no trouble picking him out.'
'Why don't I just kill him as he appears in the doorway?'
'Because I am telling you not to, half-wit. He is the Drenai Champion. It will suit our purposes if he is merely injured — you understand?'
'Whose purposes are we talking about?'
Jarid smiled. 'Large sums have been wagered on tomorrow's fight. If you wish, I shall speak the name of my master. Know, however, that once I have done so I will take your neck in my hands and snap the bones beneath. Your choice. You wish to know?'
'No. I understand. But you have to understand that if your men fail then I'll be sending a bolt into the darkness at a moving target. I can't guarantee I won't kill him! What happens then?'
'You'll still get paid. Now take up your position.' Swinging to the others, Jarid gathered them in a tight group and spoke, his voice scarcely above a whisper. 'The Drenai is a fearsome fighter, very powerful. Once any of you have planted a knife in his upper body, shoulders, chest or arm, the rest of you must break away and run. You understand? This is not a fight to the death; a deep wound is all we require.'
'Begging your pardon, sir,' said a lean man with missing front teeth, 'but I've bet on Klay. Won't that bet be voided if the Drenai can't fight?'
Jarid shook his head. 'The bet would be on Klay taking gold. If the Drenai doesn't fight then the gold is automatically given to Klay.'
'What if a knife goes too deep and he dies?' asked another man.
Jarid shrugged. 'All life is a game of chance.'
Moving away from the men he ducked into an alley, then cut left across a section of waste ground, ducking into a shadowed doorway. Tall Tess was standing by a broken mirror, her red dress unfastened at the breast and pushed down to her hips. She was sponging cool water to her naked upper body.
'It's hot tonight,' she said, grinning at Jarid. He did not return the smile but stepping in close he grabbed her arm, twisting it painfully. Tess cried out.
'Shut up!' he ordered. 'I told you no other clients tonight, my girl. I like my women fresh.'
'There haven't been any, lovely man,' she said. 'I had to run from the hospice, all the way. That's why I'm sweating!'
'Hospice? What you talking about, girl?' Releasing her arm he took a step back. Tess rubbed at her scrawny bicep.
'Loira. They took her in today. Klay come for her. Took her in his carriage, he did. It was wonderful, Jarid. All dark wood, lacquered black, and padded leather seats and cushions of satin. And she's in a bed now, with linen so white it could have been spun from clouds.'
'I didn't know Klay was one of her marks?'
'He wasn't. Her snipe, Fastfinger, went and begged him to help. And he did. So Loira's being looked after now, with medicines and food.'