The Court of Broken Knives

It took perhaps ten paces to walk through. A very long ten paces. Almost a death, or a rebirth. Then suddenly they were out in a great square, the Court of Faces, blinking in the light, surrounded by people and sound and noise and stink. Like a magic trick. More soldiers gave them cold glances. Traders and hustlers surged forward, offering guides and recommendations for a good lodging house. A crowd of thousands, hair and skin every possible colour, clothing bright and dark and pale as water, glittering with gold. Colour and texture and beauty roaring in the eyes. Shouts in every language, birdsong and music, dogs barking, bray of asses, buzz of flies, bleating of goats. Sweat and incense, spice and honey, wood smoke and rot and shit and vomit and piss. Vast buildings, white marble, yellow brickwork, gilt wood, red paint. Carved porticoes and stone columns and velvet awnings and jewelled domes. Clockwork toys and paper flowers and silk carpets and caged birds and silver jewellery and roast meat.

The decaying heart of a decayed empire.

Sorlost.

‘Right.’ Tobias smiled at them warily. ‘We’re in. Just got to find everyone else now.’

‘Friendly bunch, aren’t they?’ muttered Emit, glancing back at the soldiers. ‘Or maybe they just don’t like His Lordship here.’ Can’t say I blame them, his eyes continued.

What have I ever done to you? Marith thought bitterly. He felt again a vague desire to kill the man.

His eyes were itching, the skin of his face raw. He found he was rubbing at his mouth and forced his hands to drop to his sides. His body felt heavy, the armour he wore hot and awkward hidden under his shirt. The noise and the confusion was almost too much for him, after the long days of silence in the desert sand. He had liked the emptiness, the feeling of it like a pain in his body, fear and yearning and sorrow that cut like great claws. Dragon’s claws, he thought with a bitter laugh. Everything had seemed briefly easier, with nothing between himself and his shadows, nothing to think about but walking onwards in the dust. Calm. Clean. Empty. This clamour and bustle of life made him uneasy, as though he were walking a high tightrope and might easily fall.

But there should be things here … He gazed around the square with nervous interest. Street sellers offered skewers of meat, thin cakes of sweet bread, flowers, drinks of lemon water, sherbet ice. Even this early in the day a few whores touted for business, worn and raddled in the fresh light. Two beggars with withered limbs and running sores jangled alms bowls. A drunk lay slumped against the base of a statue, sleeping in a puddle of vomit beneath rearing stone hooves. Almost nostalgic.

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