“Are you going to kill him?”

“That all depends on whether he gives up and comes along quietly.”

“But what if he doesn’t? What if he chooses to run?”

“Then he pays the consequences.”

“I’m not sure that I’m happy with that. After all, it’s not Petrie we want is it, it’s his boss.”

“Petrie has the same chance as any other law breaker. If he chooses to fight or to run, then he will get what is his due. If not…well, we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Andra Kendrick sat on his horse, staring down into the throng of traders and peddlers in the packed market place of Calvoe Hill. He watched as the bald man he’d identified as Mackon Petrie wound his way between stalls, stopping to talk to various men skulking in the mouths of alleyways along the perimeter of the market place.

Hundreds of merchants converged on this once tiny hamlet in the eastern most corner of Varun to trade their wares for the silver and tin that was mined from the hills hereabouts. And there were more than vendors selling grain and wine; there were others that traded wares that appealed more to the senses than either food or drink.
Contrary to the Emperor’s Law, many of the men in the market place offered contraband designed to lighten the toil of the miners and camp followers. Mind altering drugs and narcotics could be openly purchased from stallholders posing as herbalists or spice merchants. Women could be bought for a single copper or as much as a shekel of gold if you preferred your company young and perfumed. Boys were also made available, whether that was for the use of apprentice or for more aberrant reasons known only to the buyer. And it was more for this latter reason that Andra Kendrick had travelled here.

Beside Kendrick, Shoam dal Avram shook his head. The younger man’s horse must have sensed some of its rider’s unease and it whickered softly. Shoam patted its neck, but turned his eyes on Kendrick.

“He could lead us to the master of this ring. Why don’t we allow him to do so? By killing him, what do we really achieve?”

Kendrick snorted. “You think another will simply fill his shoes? Take over the gang master‘s role perhaps?”

“Past experience dictates-”

Before he could continue, Kendrick laughed to himself.
“Past experience? You talk as though you have been more than a month from the academy, young Shoam. What would you know of experience?” Kendrick turned to his young charge, awaiting a reply. Shoam simply hung his head.

“You are here only as an observer,” Kendrick finally said. “Observe and learn.”

“You have noted the others, I trust?”
Shoam immediately regretted his words and quickly attempted to make amends. “Whilst you are dealing with Petrie, do you require me to hold off his friends?”

“His friends are slinking curs who will not intervene.”

“But, how can you be so sure?” Shoam asked.

Kendrick shrugged, gave his young friend a smile. “Past experience.”

Whilst Shoam watched in bemused silence, Kendrick kicked his horse along the muddy trail leading down into Calvoe Hills. Over his shoulder he called, “Do you intend observing from afar, young Shoam, or would you prefer to be a little closer?”

Shoam shook his head again, kicked his own horse forward.

Once tiny, the hamlet had taken on the dimensions of a large town with the influx of traders. But unlike a town, most of the constructs at its outer fringes were temporary, merely tents, or living wagons, and here-and-there the odd awning hung between poles cut from the green woods of the slopes above. The stench was intense, open latrines vying with the tanneries to shock the senses. In the hamlet itself the stench grew even worse. Here the closeness of unwashed bodies intermingled with the sweet smell of rotting straw and animal dung caught at the back of the throat and brought tears to the eyes.

“O’Bel’s blood,” Shoam gasped. “How can anyone live in this stench?”

Kendrick glanced at his young associate and again smiled. However, this time the smile was grim. “You have experienced nothing until you have savoured the stench of death, my friend. This is as the smell of a bouquet of flowers compared to a battlefield.”

Shoam inclined his chin. “I have experienced death. At the academy we-”

Kendrick held up a hand.
“Do not compare what you have seen in the cold house to an open battlefield, Shoam.”

Shoam shook his head. “I wasn’t referring to the surgeon’s lesson, sir. I must admit, that was bad in itself, seeing him open up a corpse, but I was there when Gerith was lax with his defence and had his guts spilled in the practice hall.”

Kendrick pursed his lips. Finally, he nodded. “Yes, that was messy.”

“The way his intestines spilled out, the blood and viscera…ugh,” Shoam screwed his eyes tight at the memory.

“I was referring to his technique,” Kendrick grunted. “He should have easily parried Montan’s clumsy sword cut.”

Before Shoam could give him the full benefit of his dismay, Kendrick slid out of his saddle. Hidden from the youth, he chuckled to himself. When he appeared at the horse’s haunches, his face was flat again. “Bring your sword. You may have need of it after all.”

Kendrick stalked past him, and Shoam noted that his tutor had already strapped his own curved blade to his hip. Wearing no discernible uniform, the curved sword with its dragon hilt was the badge of Kendrick’s office. Immediately on seeing it, some in the crowd moved aside. Other’s, less diligent than insolent, still moved as Kendrick stepped towards them. Shoam marvelled at the presence of his teacher, hoping that, one day, he would command as much respect when he walked through a crowd.
That day would come. He was sure of that.
But only if he didn’t get himself killed first.

He hurried to dismount and sheath his own blade, somewhat awkwardly tangling the belt ties in his stirrup iron and having to untangle them with shaking fingers. He was cursing under his breath as he stumbled after Kendrick. Some in the crowd weren’t as quick to move for him as they’d been for Kendrick, and he wondered if that was down to the fact his sword didn’t yet carry the full dragon, merely the clenched fist of a probationary Justice Of The Emperor’s Peace.
Maybe, he decided, it was more down to the cold eyes of his mentor that invited anyone to even think of challenging his authority. He attempted to emulate the same look, squinting his eyes in a fair imitation of Kendrick’s thousand mile stare. But after several paces he gave up, deciding it gave him the impression not of one with intense purpose but of one with severe wind.

Kendrick had halted his march and Shoam moved up to his shoulder. The younger man was taller, even heavier of frame, but standing so close to his mentor, he felt exactly what he was, a boy pretending to be a man.

“What now?” he whispered.

“Over to your left,” Kendrick said. “You see the man with the split nose?”

“I see him. Obviously he is a thief. I see the locals have already marked him as thus.”

“More than a thief,” Kendrick said. “He’s Petrie’s bodyguard.”

“You’re sure?” Again Shoam bit back a curse for having questioned Kendrick’s knowledge of such matters.

“Note his fists,” Kendrick said. “The flattened knuckles? This man has been in many fights. And he’s obviously good at what he does.”

Choosing his words carefully, Shoam asked, “How do you know, sir?”

“Other than the slash to his nose, does he look marked to you?”

Shoam studied the slightly rotund face of the man. Other than the scar halving his nose his features was unblemished.

“That means one of two things,” Kendrick went on. “Either he is so good that another fighter has not landed a fist on him, or he is a coward that hits when his enemy is off guard. Neither possibility bodes well, young Shoam. Be wary of that one.”
Kendrick stepped forward again. His eyes had settled on Petrie as the bald man forced a route through the crowd and approached a man wearing the ragged finery of a landowner whose fortunes were waning as his need for drug induced oblivion grew.

Shoam glanced at the bodyguard before setting off after Kendrick. The man gave a cold smile and stepped forward.

“Split Nose follows,” he whispered.

“I expected as much,” Kendrick replied. “Be alert, young Shoam. Others move from our right.”

Shoam to his credit had also noted the two men approaching. They whispered together, a pair of scruffy louts with cudgels at their belts.

“They are armed, sir,” Shoam cautioned.

“As are we,” Kendrick stated. That was as much of an explanation as Shoam would get for now. To reassure himself, Shoam gripped the pommel of his sword. He was tempted to slide the blade a finger’s width or so out of its scabbard in warning to the approaching men. But, as Kendrick made no such move, neither did he.

Sensing impending violence, the market place very rapidly became less packed. It was as though the men and women gathered there picked up on the electric tremor Shoam could feel in his forearms and across his shoulders. Sound grew muted, and even the stench of decay and unwashed bodies faded in the young man’s nostrils. A veil began to creep across the corners of his vision.

Without pausing Kendrick asked. “Do you feel it, Shoam? The fear?”

“I, uh…” Shoam spluttered. He didn’t want to accept that he was frightened. Not in the presence of his teacher.

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