Vigir was sick of seafood, wearied of talking, sick of cleanliness and affability. If he was going to be idle, let it be with wine and dice and the occasional brawl. Nereif had him tell of his life, which was only fitting, for he had travelled widely and done great deeds. Yet Nereif was as interested in slaves and peasants and ale-wives as much as in heroic feats. Also, this language magicked into him tangled his thoughts. There were dozens of terms for sorcery, the words for ‘him’ and ‘her’ were the same and the notions it gave him of women were uncomfortable. The beer was good but Vigir wanted roast meat and strong red wine and willing wenches. Why could he not think of wenches in this strange tongue? Jammathe’s wanton invitation was open, but Vigir was properly wary of her wiles. Witches like her lured men in only to enfeeble or enchant them; such had been the serpent-queen of Aghrabir, who had laughed and vanished in red smoke when he won free of her toils and sought to grasp her.

He had asked Nereif where he might sell his sword-skills for good silver. Where were the bloodiest wars and richest loot? Nereif did not know, and had continued with his questions. Vigir had had enough, and said so.

“Let the boy explore the city,” Jammathe said. She had wandered in to hang over Vigir’s shoulder.

“We have given our surety for his behaviour,” Nereif pointed out.

“I’m sure Vigir can be trusted not to cause too much trouble,” Jammathe purred, leaning lower to press her breasts against Vigir’s back. Nereif threw up his hands and left the room.

Vigir left the house later that afternoon, a small purse at his belt. He would not carry a sword he could not draw, but no man of his country went without a weapon; Nereif had allowed a stout dagger. It too went at his belt, a broad leather strap above wide-legged breeches of scarlet cloth. A sleeveless tunic of light cotton and a wide hat completed his dress. His sandals were the same that had carried him through the streets of Zangier and the forests of this world. Vigir strode towards the wharf district with confidence.

The streets were as crowded as before, the music as lively. Vigir inhaled deeply, sampled the scents through flared nostrils and followed his nose to a tavern fronting a small square. A woman seated beside the fountain played and sang, her chords matching the rhythms of the falling water. Vigir ignore her in favour of the rich smells of basting meat, and went straight in. Here was his kind of place – a large haunch roasting over glowing stones, tapped barrels arrayed behind a bar, servers weaving their way through the crowd with pitchers and platters. A largely male crowd, Vigir noted approvingly. Several men were around a table where some sort of game was in progress. It involved coloured sticks and the tossing of small cubes, minor explosions and whoops of delight. Piles of silver coins before the players shrank and grew as he watched. Vigir shook his head; even here they must sport with magics instead of plain dice.

Two men rose from a table nearby, and Vigir moved quickly to take a seat, setting his broad back against the wall. A whistle and a wave attracted the attention of a server, as well as disapproving looks from several patrons. These Vigir ignored.

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“Your strongest red and a plate of the roast, as quick as may be, for I am famished,” he told the server.

“Bread or mash with the meat?” the server asked neutrally.

“Bread of course, rough and fresh.” The server left and Vigir took the moment to take in the room in more detail. The crowd was a varied lot, some in fine clothes, others in plain gear, hair shorn to stubble, teased into spikes, braided, bunched, flowing loose, skins of deepest black or his own native pallor and all the shades between. There were more women than he had first thought, and his glance lingered on exposed flesh and cloth tight over curves. His survey was interrupted by a plate of meat, thick slices dripping juice, plonked down with a basket of bread. A tankard of wine arrived moments later, black-red as old blood and strong. Vigir dug in, spearing slices on his dagger, tearing off hunks of bread to mop up the juices and washing the meal down with gulps of wine. A second tankard went down before he was finished with the plate. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and belched. Now for some sport.

In between bites he had watched the next table play a game that involved pinning wooden plaques that skittered about the tabletop, twisting and darting as they evaded stabs. Now a laughing woman was bending over the table holding a wooden peg. Her hand came down, quick as a heron striking for a fish, a plaque was pinned, she cried ‘Eleven and nine! I win!’. Vigir had been following her play with interest. The woman reminded him of Zangier, with her black locks, olive skin and bold nose, yet her tight trousers and knotted shirt brought to mind Black Sian, the pirate queen who had shared his bed. Black Sian had fallen to the poisoned arrows of jungle savages, and he had taken a fearsome revenge before her pyre had cooled. Well, Sian or Zangier, both had been delights.

A keen eye and a fast hand – this seemed a game he could play and win. He rose, belched again, stretched and sauntered over. The four at the table looked him over – a squat teak-coloured fellow with an odd flat-topped hairstyle, the woman, a local youth in that unmanly skirt and and older man, dark-complexioned, with a beard braided into many small plaits, oiled and perfumed. This last raised an eyebrow at Vigir.

Vigir smiled. “An interesting game. Can I try my hand for a few silvers?” There was an exchange of glances and then the woman stepped back, as befitted a tavern wench. Doubtless it had pleased the men to let her win in hope of favours later.

“You have played chenga before?” asked the older man. At Vigir’s shake of the head he explained the rules. One had to pin a plaque through the numbered holes, with points for pinning in sequences – all odds or evens or a run of four or higher. As holes were pinned the plaques moved faster. The scoring was not dissimilar to the dice games Vigir had played with his comrades in the Free Companies. He put down a silver piece and watched as the bearded man placed the pin in five holes for a score of forty before missing two strokes to end his turn. The local youth placed four, scoring twenty-five, the flat-topped man five scoring sixty and it was Vigir’s turn. The first two pins went in and now the plaques were darting about like minnows in a stream. He made a stab, missed, then missed again and was out without scoring. The next round went the same way. The winner picked up Vigir’s silver and asked if he wished to play again. Vigir declined and turned to the woman.

“I can think of better games we two could play,” he opened, accompanying the words with a friendly squeeze of her rump. His memory of the next period was blurry, but when he blinked himself back into consciousness Nereif was regarding him with concern. His jaw was tender, his neck felt as if it had been twisted around several times, his ribs ached, one eye refused to open and his right arm was strapped to his chest. The ceiling above wavered, but he thought he was back at the house of the Learned Archive.

“You seem to have displeased someone,” Nereif told him. “We healed you as much as is possible without risking changes to your body. You are on course to recover fully in five or six days, although the teeth will take a little more time.”

“Was I hit by some coward’s blow, or the wine poisoned?” Vigir asked through mashed lips.

“Jammathe is finding out what happened. For now, sleep.”